


Nothing This Beautiful Could Be Real

by louciferish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Drag Queens, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Drunk Katsuki Yuuri, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17291549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: The first time Yuuri stumbled into that club and saw Tori Adore performing, her custom gown shimmering beneath the stage lights, he fell in love - not only with Tori, but with what she did.Drag. It opened all new doors for Yuuri, giving him a glimpse into a world where he could be someone else - someone beautiful.Five years later, Victor is starting to realize it’s time to retire Tori. He’s out of college, he’s got a high-profile job as an attorney, and he can’t afford the risk of living a double life. He’s ready to give up life and love (and even dresses) for his career. But just as he’s starting to accept the change he needs, two new people waltz into his life - Saki, a queen who moves like her body is making music, and Yuuri, the quiet but passionate new law clerk at his firm - and Victor finds himself torn between the alluring world of glitter and makeup and the promise of success and domesticity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from _To Wong Foo Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar_. :D 
> 
> A few notes before we dive in:
> 
> This is a drag queen AU, so I need to make a note on pronouns. I'm following the tradition here - characters in drag are referred to as she/her, regardless of how they identity when _not_ in drag. This means on some scenes, a character's pronouns may shift from one moment to the next, but outside of this chapter there should not be much of that.
> 
> Somewhat related - this story is very fictional. XD It's inspired by some media and some real life experiences from myself and others, but cobbled together from all kinds of sources and wrapped up in a very imaginary bow. Descriptions of places and cultures may be somewhat different from reality in spots for entertainment reasons.
> 
> The rating may change to E in later chapters... I'll be sure to point out if that happens!
> 
> Last, but far from least, unspeakable thanks to [astudyinrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose) for the beta work and the incredible [Hana-Tox](http://hana-tox.tumblr.com/) for the artwork!

Yuuri is lost.

He’s standing on a corner, staring up at an intersection that reads _Main_ in one direction and _Elm_ in the other, and all he knows is that his dormitory isn’t on either street. His dorm is on _Linden_. Where on earth is Linden? 

It was a mistake, letting the other boys from his dorm drag him downtown. He’s only been here a few days—only been in the _country_ a few days—and barely knows how to find his way from his room to the nearest dining hall on campus for breakfast, let alone back to campus from… wherever this is. 

But there was no reason for Yuuri to expect the group would abandon him. Only Steven had even stopped to look back, giving Yuuri a wry shrug as he filed into the raucous bar with the others, slipping his fake ID into his back pocket as he went. Yuuri doesn’t have a fake ID. If anyone had asked or let Yuuri in on the plan for the night, he would have warned them. He knows he can’t pass for twenty-one—he barely passes for eighteen still, nine months past his birthday. As he expected, the bouncer had barely even glanced at Yuuri before putting his arm out, barring him from entry.

He hadn’t even wanted to drink. In fact, all he wants to be back in his room, hanging up his last few posters and eating instant ramen while he waits for a movie torrent to download, like a good college student. Back home, he’d have known better than to listen to his roommate’s friends as they tried to talk him into going out, but the world here is still confusing, the English language itself a maze of repetition, slang terms, and tricky new customs. Everyone in his family had told him to make friends— _try_ to make friends, like it’s a monumental task for him. So here he is, trying. Look where that’s gotten him.

What _is_ a Linden, anyway?

He turns and heads up Main, looking for the next corner and hoping that he’ll find something familiar along the way. The street is lined with pizza places, coffee houses, and bars. Bouncers shadow the doorways, calling out drink specials to the gaggles of students swarming the sidewalk. They ignore Yuuri, focused on the girls walking by, who apparently make more convincing adults.

He finds the next corner. It’s not Linden.

Yuuri deflates, unsure what to do next. 

“Hey there,” someone calls out, and it takes Yuuri a minute and another few “Hey”s to realize the guy is talking to him. Another bouncer is leaning in the open door of a bar, a fit older student clad from head to toe in black. It makes quite a contrast against the exterior wall of the bar, which is painted an eye-searing shade of teal in sloppy, staccato strokes. The sign overhead—painted bright yellow—proclaims it _The Alley_. 

The bouncer jerks his head toward the open doorway. “You look like you need to sit down. New student special - no cover tonight for incoming freshmen.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri says. “I’m not twenty-one. I’m trying to find Linden Street?” 

“Back the way you came.” 

Yuuri sighs, and the bouncer squints at him. “But we’ll let you in as long as you’re eighteen.” He throws Yuuri a cheesy wink. “You look like a guy who enjoys an air conditioned room and a plastic cup of water to me.”

Yuuri snorts. It’s dumb, but his standards are low right now. Sitting down to regroup—that doesn’t sound too bad, and the bouncer’s smile looks genuine. Yuuri knows the guy is just playing at friendliness to bring in customers, but it doesn’t hurt anything to pretend. 

“Sure,” Yuuri relents and fishes his passport out of his back pocket to prove he’s over eighteen. 

The bouncer gives it a quick look and uncaps a black sharpie with his teeth before scrawling fat, fragrant Xs across the backs of Yuuri’s hands. Then he lifts Yuuri’s hands up and blows on the ink. The stream of cool air makes the hair on the back of Yuuri’s neck prickle. The bouncer smirks when Yuuri shivers, but drops his hands. “Have a good night, sweetheart,” he drawls.

Yuuri goes from cool to flushed in an instant, and even his ears feel hot as he slips through the open door and into the dim interior of the bar.

The inside of the bar isn’t much to look at, but not so different from Minako’s place back home, not that he was ever _there_ except to occasionally fetch his sloppily cheerful father back to the onsen. But, until today, that was the only bar he’d ever walked into. Classes haven’t even started yet, and Yuuri is already learning new things.

There’s an L-shaped bar near the wall, stocked with bottles in a variety of shapes and colors, with a line of metal stools set in front. It’s at least double the size of Minako’s, though, and the rest of the floor is divided between a smattering of tables that don’t match, and a small wooden stage set up against the back wall, its platform obscured by a faded, rainbow-striped curtain. Yuuri eyes the stage with suspicion. A karaoke bar might explain why they let in younger students, but he wasn’t sure that the hobby was popular in the States.

Yuuri slides onto one of the bar stools and shifts his weight. He’s never actually sat down in a bar before. It’s a strange feeling. 

The guy tending the bar looks like a dancer—his sleeveless shirt is cropped well above his waist, displaying his tanned stomach muscles. At first, he leans on the bar in front of Yuuri with a smile, but then he spots the black X’s marring Yuuri’s hands and turns away without a word. When he comes back, it’s with the promised free plastic cup of water. Yuuri murmurs a thanks, but the bartender is already moving along to a group of older guys with a stack of empty shot glasses teetering next to them.

Yuuri watches, sipping his water, as the bartender leans toward the three men at the other side of the bar. One of them leans forward in return, reaching out to run fingers through the bartender’s spiky blonde hair as they talk. Another man comes up behind him, pressing himself tight against his friend’s back, and Yuuri averts his eyes. He can feel the heat seeping into his cheeks, unused to seeing such displays of public affection. 

He turns away in time to see the two women at the closest table tilt their heads and kiss. Oh. _Oh._ Yuuri is an idiot. 

It’s not like he didn’t know gay bars were a thing. He’s been on the internet. He’s a bisexual teenager with decent English skills. He’s seen enough American films and TV with gay characters to understand the concept. 

But in Hasetsu there certainly wasn’t anything like _this_. Yuuri’s grip on the plastic cup in his hand relaxes, and he leans back against the edge of the bar. He didn’t even know this was here. It never occurred to him to check for and LGBT community when he was looking at schools, but now that he knows, it settles into his bones. He’s going to be spending a lot of time in this place.

The lights above the stage pop to life, and the bright, electronic music that was threading through the speakers fades, then dies. An older boy hops onto the stage, his blonde hair hanging in ringlet curls to his chin like a child film star. His smiles and wiggles his fingers out at the nearly-empty bar, unphased by how small the crowd is.

“Ladies, gentlemen, etcetera,” he says, lips lingering too close to the microphone stand, creating suggestion when he licks them deliberately. “Welcome to The Alley. We’ve got a delicious little treat for you to kick things off tonight, and I think you’ll agree she’s _adorable_.” There’s a weak chuckle from the other end of the bar. Whatever the joke was there, Yuuri missed it.

The announcer takes a step back and throws his arms out wide. “Please get it up for Miss Tori Adore!”

With a swish, the rainbow curtain around the stage flies open as the announcer hops down. There’s a woman on stage, reclining on a metal stool, and Yuuri’s breath catches at the sight of her.

He isn’t sure where to look first—no, that’s not true. His eyes go straight to the mile of bare leg she has extended from the high slit of her dress, and he can tell that her toe is pointed like a ballerina despite the high-heeled black shoes she’s wearing. When he finally tears his gaze away from that leg, _then_ he doesn’t know where to look, so instead his eyes dart from the waterfall of white-blonde hair tinged pink in the stage lights, to the flash of the gems that decorate her black and red evening gown,and the burgundy pout of her cupid’s bow mouth. 

Tori turns on the stool and holds the microphone to her lips, her voice a throaty purr when she speaks. “Good evening, everyone.” Her lip curls up in a seductive smile. “Won’t you let me surprise you?”

The music cuts on, but it’s only white noise in Yuuri’s ears, water rushing over rocks. He watches as she stands, swirling, stalking the tiny stage like a catwalk, and he’s captivated. 

Tori’s hips sway as she moves to the front of the stage, each flutter of her gown teasing a glimpse at the bar skin of her leg. The singer’s voice over the speakers is almost a growl, and Tori mouths the words like an invocation. When she traces her gloved hand along the curve of her chest and the song exclaims, _Fever!_ , Yuuri can feel himself overheating.

She’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen, and so much more. He never knew this was here, never knew this possibility before, and suddenly he wants—not _her_ , because he knows he could never have someone like that. He wants far more than that. He wants to _be_ her—perfect, compelling, beautiful.

Tori spins again, cocking her head, and their eyes collide across the room. Yuuri can feel her unnaturally blue gaze drilling a hole right through his heart. This. This is where he was meant to be.

-

Five years later, Yuuri is still trying to find the spot in The Alley where he lost his heart—and maybe his wits along with it.

Step one in that search is to locate his favorite feather boa. Can’t find your inspiration without the proper attire, after all.

There’s a pile of bright fabric draped across the floral chair that serves as the closest thing the girls have to a wardrobe, just like this storage closet with a couple spotty mirrors is the nearest thing they have to a dressing room. Yuuri is wrist deep in the pile, trying to find his lost boa through feel alone. 

“What are you looking for?” Phichit’s voice breaks through the thump of pop music playing on the other side of the wall.

Yuuri glances up at him and glares. His roomate is wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts that were certainly meant for teenage girls, and a black V-neck that’s absolutely _plunging_ , but Yuuri’s eyes fall to the familiar blue-black speckled feathers draped around Phichit’s neck. 

“That! Why did you steal my boa? I’m about to go on soon.”

“Because I look fabulous in it, that’s why.” Phichit flings the tail around his neck strikes a pose, unaffected by Yuuri’s scowl. “What? It doesn’t even go with the dress you’re wearing tonight.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands, urging Yuuri back toward the solitary chair. “Sit down. If you’re in such a rush, I’ll help with your hair.”

“It’s a black boa,” Yuuri grumbles. “Black goes with everything.” But he drops into the old barber’s chair by the mirror at Phichit’s command. He’s more than capable of getting his own wig on, but it always turns out nicer with a second set of hands to pin and adjust, and Phichit seems to have a natural talent for it. 

Yuuri lets his eyes fall closed, relaxing at the touch of fingers on his head as Phichit checks the fit and coverage of his wig cap. 

“I hear Tori is performing at Podium tonight,” Phichit says as he settles what feels like ten pounds of fake hair onto Yuuri’s scalp. “Are we going?”

“‘We’?” Yuuri echoes. “Don’t you have a bar to tend?”

“I won’t when half our audience leaves to go see Tori instead.” 

Yuuri snorts. That’s an exaggeration, though not by much. Tori does pull in quite a crowd, but most of the customers in The Alley will stay put, mostly because they aren’t willing (or able) to pay a second, higher cover to get into Podium. 

“Besides,” Phichit continues. “Mickey can handle it.”

Yuuri doesn’t dignify that remark with a response. Phichit knows full well that Mickey _can’t_ handle the bar by himself, not unless it’s two in the afternoon on a Sunday. “I can’t tonight,” he says instead. “I’m a little busy here. Plus, my first day at the summer job is tomorrow. I need to get to bed at a decent hour.”

“Fine,” Phichit sighs, giving the wig a last tug to check that it’ll hold up through anything Yuuri does on stage. “Force me to be responsible, then.” His hands settle onto Yuuri’s shoulders, and his voice drops to a murmur. “You look good tonight.” 

Yuuri opens his eyes, and Saki blinks back from the spotty mirror. Her breath hitches at the sight. It never gets old. 

The most important thing in Yuuri’s daily life is comfort. He lives in workout clothes, though he doesn’t make it to the gym as often as he should. He prefers his somewhat unfashionable glasses over the effort of contact lenses. He owns a beige plaid couch that he recovered from a dumpster two years ago, and he he loves it despite the stains and the missing arm cushion.

Saki is the opposite, a place where all Yuuri’s _other_ interests can be free. She tilts her head in the mirror and admires the way the highlighting brings out her cheekbones. Her thick lashes and careful eyeliner make her dark eyes look twice as big as Yuuri’s, and the fall of ebony curls over her shoulders looks natural, perfect. She could probably hang upside down from the rafters and no one in the audience would suspect it was a wig.

“Damn,” she whispers, slipping easily into the lilting voice she uses on stage. “I do look good tonight. Great work, Phichit.” Saki flips her curls back behind her and winks at the mirror. “Tori should be regretting _she_ can’t see _this_ ,” she jokes.

“When you’re right, you’re right, girl.” Phichit grins, brushing away the stray hairs her wig shed onto her clinging red sheath dress. “But we should go see her sometime, anyway. I heard she’s retiring this year, and the Podium promoters have been sniffing around, talking about auditions.”

Saki whips around, needing to see Phichit’s face to search for signs that he’s bluffing once again. “What?” When Phichit is lying or trying to prank her, his lips twitch. It’s a dead giveaway—the sign of a smile he can’t quite contain. She lasers in on his expression, but his mouth is a firm line. 

She sinks back into the chair, a deflated party balloon listing toward the floor. Tori, retiring? It’s not what was supposed to happen. 

There are dreams in Saki’s head, things she only speaks about in hushed whispers when the lights are out. More of them than she’d like to admit involve Tori, even the ones that are strictly PG-rated. _Retiring_. It could ruin everything.

-

Tori jams her hand down the front of her dress and twists her fake tit into position. How it got in backwards to start with is beyond her. Maybe she needs to be more careful with her laundry.

“Much better,” Chris declares. He’s stretched out on the violet chaise against the dressing room wall, looking like he’s ready to ringlead a circus in his tailored navy blue tux. At least there’s no top hat. Then again, he’d never allow any costume addition that might squash the spring in his blond curls. “I think you should go ahead and pop a third one in there. The more the merrier.”

“True when it comes to lovers, not when it comes to breasts,” Tori counters, swiveling the top of her catsuit and then taping the edges into place. “I think there’s a hard limit at two per chest, darling.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Chris sighs. 

Tori ignores him, stepping closer to one of the mirrors for a careful check on the edges of her costume. The gold epaulets topping the pink catsuit still give her pause. She knows she should be minimizing her shoulders, not drawing attention to them; she’s no longer a wispy eighteen-year-old, after all, but in counterpoint—epaulets are very mature, aren’t they? She’s making a _statement_.

She pushes her silver waves back to cover the low-cut back of the costume, delighting in the sensation of fake hair tickling her exposed spine, then turns back to Chris, running her hands over her hips to smooth the material across her padding and double check for lines. “What do you think?” she prompts.

“I think you look cruel,” Chris pouts. “Cruel and beautiful. How dare you even think of leaving us like this?”

“The best performers leave the audience wanting more.” Tori smiles slyly, swishing her hips as she steps closer to Chris, rising on her toes out of habit though her feet are still stocking-clad, like a poised Barbie doll. She reaches down and tilts Chris’ face up so he can’t look away. “Are you thirsty for more?”

“I’m always thirsty.” Chris’s cat-green eyes bore into her. Abruptly, he breaks character, shattering both their personas as his voice goes flat. “Seriously, Victor. You can’t do this to the club. Tori is the biggest draw we have.”

Tori drops her chin and turns around. The vanity lights around the mirror confirm that she looks perfect—not a hair out of place, makeup on point. She grabs a lip gloss from her kaboodle and starts to trace it over her mouth anyway, just for something to distract her from Chris. 

“You’ll find new talent,” she snaps. “It’s a college town. There are always hot young things flooding in, pigeon-toed in their mothers’ shoes. You have options.”

“We can’t just put a fence up outside and start corralling them in,” Chris says. He sits up on the sofa, folding his hands on his lap. “At least stay a few months more. Help us teach some of the new blood the moves.”

“I’ve taken too many risks already, Christophe.” The emphasis on his full name is deliberate, pointed. “I’m not a college student anymore. Work keeps me busy, and if I want to move up at the firm, I need to be more available to take on new cases, work extra hours.” She doesn’t mention the last part—the looming concern, ever-present, that someday one of her coworkers will walk in the door here and, somehow, recognize her on stage. She has no reason to believe they’d take it badly, but also no faith that they’d take it _well_.

Tori is glaring at her own reflection now, lines gathering in her forehead like storm clouds, and she forces her face to relax. She’s put on too much gloss in her distraction and grabs a tissue to dab off some of the shine. “Besides,” she adds. “That complaint is rich coming from someone who already retired. If you need a new performer so badly, why not just come back and do it yourself?”

Chris shakes his head, lips just parting to deliver his next argument, when the tempo of the music pounding through the walls picks up. It’s time for the show. His mouth twists, but he stands. 

“We’ll discuss this later,” he says mildly. He pauses in front of the unoccupied mirror to straighten his jacket and steals a fingerful of Tori’s favorite lip gloss, then swishes out the door to the stage.

The doubt takes Tori in Chris’s wake. Tori stares at herself in the mirror, but she only sees Victor—Victor in makeup and a ridiculous wig—a boy in a dress, playing at glamour. Divided, she closes her eyes. Not Victor, not now. _Tori_.

The music in the club fades to silence, and over it she hears Chris, voice amplified to carry through the whole building. “Welcome, one and all! You’ve heard the legends. You’ve spread the gossip. Now, you’re here to see for yourself.” Dramatic pause, always the dramatic pause. “Podium is proud to present to you, the one, the only, _Miss Tori Adore_!”

She lets out her breath in a whoosh and opens her eyes once more. A beautiful woman blinks back at her with a picture-perfect smile. This is it. 

She slips into her heels, taking her time. She loves to make them wait for it. Then, she stalks out through the hall. 

Tori steps out onto the stage and stops, popping her hip with a pout, and the crowd hoots and cheers in approval. The club is packed, people stacked in and standing between the tables for a better view. 

She snatches the microphone from Chris’ hands and pulls it to her lips, purring, “Hello, loves. I’m here to make. Your. Night.” The audience response overwhelms the thrum of her music, and she lets the wave of sound carry her into the routine.

-

Under the yellow streetlights, students are laughing, shoving each other playfully on the sidewalk and yelling across the streets at their friends, encouraging them to ignore the signs and dodge across the traffic. They’re high on beer and hormones, and the neon lights above the bars electrify their blood, rendering them fearless.

Leaning against a brick wall in the alley, his hands jammed into the tiny pockets of his favorite jeans, Yuri breathes in the darkness around him. It smells like sour garbage.

It’s mid-May, but the summer is creeping into the city early, and the pavement around him is still radiating heat from baking in the sun all day. A door opens somewhere behind him, and someone tosses out a black plastic bag. It clinks and rattles when it lands, the familiar sound of empty glass bottles colliding with the ground. 

He’s too warm out here, jacket zipped to his throat and the hood up, but he can’t take it off, not until he’s made it inside. He scoots closer to the front of the building and watches as two girls in sharp black heels stroll toward the door.

They’re giggling, hands tightly clasped between them, in matching black dresses that barely skim their thighs, and no one would know one from the other at a glance. Yuri can tell the difference, though; he can see the little cracks in the facade. They’re both smiling, white teeth and bright pink lips, but one holds her purse too close against her body, white-knuckled, her discomfort peeking through in little flashes as she takes unsteady steps, wobbling on her brand new spike heels.

He watches them approach the door. The bouncer on the stool flashes them a wide grin, and Yuri holds back a disgusted noise. The guy has sunglasses perched on top of his head— _at night_. He looks like a jackass.

But he’s polite to the girls, keeps a smile on his face as he holds out his hand for their IDs. He says something, the tone teasing, and the girls laugh. Yuri watches from the shadows as the bouncer inspects each ID card with a click of his pocket flashlight and then nods them inside. 

He doesn’t seem that thorough. Yuri chews on his lip, retreating to pace back and forth along the alley. Yeah, he’d looked at both sides of the cards, but it was just a quick flip. The fake ID was fine. It would be. It fucking _better_ be considering what Yuri paid for it.

He stops dead, bouncing on his toes and straightening his spine. The twist in his gut is shameful, and he tries to talk himself out of the nerves. 

It’s not a big deal. What’s the worst that could happen? The bouncer says no. That’s it; that’s all they can do. Yuri has the ten dollars he brought to pay cover, plus a little extra without needing to touch his bus fare. If he can’t get in, he can go to a coffee shop or one of the pizza places down the strip, grab a snack and boggart the wifi like any other teenager. 

Screams erupt from the club, and his stomach flips again. The show is starting. He closes his eyes and listens, imagines that instead the audience is watching him, cheering him on. 

Yeah. Nobody can touch him tonight.

On that thought, he turns on his heel and sweeps out of the alley, around the corner to the door. He slips his ID out of his back pocket, just like he practiced, and slides it into the bouncer’s palm just as the guy’s hand opens. Yuri tries to keep going, blowing right through the check, but an arm shoots out, blocking his way. 

“Hang on just a second there, princess,” the bouncer drawls.

Yuri seethes, hands clenching at his sides. _Princess_. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Yuri wants to snap at him, but he knows he should keep his head low, not draw attention. He turns away, hiding behind his hoodie as the bouncer clicks his flashlight to life.

“Alexander Petrov?” The guy sounds dubious, but Yuri practiced for this too.

“Yeah,” he says, and reaches out to grab the card back. “Alex Petrov. August 25, 1997.”

Before he can take it, the bouncer snatches it away, tilting it into the light again. He laughs like a seal. 

“Really?” He’s waving the card in the air now, grinning ear to ear. “You might want to check that one again, princess. Your guy put 19 _79_ on here, and this?” He taps the picture on the card, a solemn-looking man with dark hair and a slightly scraggly beard. “I see a lot of unbelievable transformations around here, but I’m pretty confident that’s not you.” 

“Fine,” Yuri spits, giving up. “It’s not me.” He grabs for the card again, but the bouncer yanks it out of reach.

“Nope. You don’t get this one back tonight, princess.” He takes the fake ID in both hands and unceremoniously rips it in half, then shakes his head. “Damn. Not even well-made.”

Yuri watches, dismayed, as the two pieces flutter down to the ground. “You jackass,” he hisses. “I paid for that!”

“Spend more next time,” the bouncer shrugs, then smirks. “Lots more, if you want to get in this door. JJ is the _king_ of spotting fake IDs. Now, are you going to make way for the grown-up customers, or do I need to call Mommy to come pick you up?”

Yuri twists away from the bouncer’s mocking smile and kicks half the torn ID up at him, but it only drops back down into a puddle, useless as ever, and he stalks off without another protest.

He may have been defeated tonight, but it’s nothing. He’s got plans. He’ll be back, and he’ll get in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! When we last left our heroes...
> 
> Kidding.
> 
> Thank you once again to Amanda for betaing this chapter. If any of the lawyer bits seem wrong to you guys, you can take it up with my personal attorney(/beta)!
> 
> I added a slow burn tag, because let's be realistic.
> 
> Once I've finished writing chapter 3, I should be able to divide up the rest of my outline and estimate how many chapters this entire story will be. 
> 
> On with the show-

The red and black striped tie had arrived two weeks prior, lovingly folded into one corner of a heavy, brown paper-wrapped package that crinkled when Yuuri lifted it from the stoop. Its exteriors was decorated by stamps, seals, and stains from the long journey, and Yuuri couldn’t help worrying about how much the shipping must have cost his family.

It was only the third care package he’d gotten since starting college, and each time guilt dropped like a stone into his stomach as he mentally calculated the price, but the contents were always appreciated. As he opened the tape seal on the box, the smells of home spilled out into the air around him.

When he finally gets the chance to wear it, a faint smell of black sesame still lingers on the fabric. Yuuri catches a whiff of it as he flips the end past his face, triggering thoughts of home. His fingertips feel thick and unwieldy as he shoots glances between his phone screen and the mirror, checking the instruction video he found online.

He’s a real adult, going to his first real adult job, and he’s _going_ to get this tie on, just like his Mama wanted him to. Yuuri can almost feel her hands at his neck, adjusting his collar as she did each morning for school.

He slides the knot up into place, pulling the noose tighter around his neck.

The skinny end flaps free, hanging down beyond the pointed tip that’s _meant_ to be longer. Yuuri curses under his breath, pulling the knot free, and checks his phone again. The time stares up at him in return: 8:15 AM. He curses again. He has to be out the door in fifteen minutes, and he still needs to scrounge together his sack lunch.

He gives up on the tie, dropping it on the bed, grabs his old blue clip-on from the drawer instead, quickly fixing it into place, and rushes into the living room. He’s careless with his bedroom door, which slams shut behind him.

There’s no time for coffee, so he flips the switch on the kettle instead. At least he’ll have a little caffeine before the bus—not that he’s feeling anything less than 1,000% awake at the moment. He’s rooting around in the cupboards for something to eat when he hears Phichit’s bedroom door crack open.

“Everything okay out here?” Phichit asks, his voice groggy and eyes still half-closed. He glances down at his phone, then watches Yuuri scurry around the kitchen. “You sounded like you were maybe being murdered.”

“Only by the concept of time,” Yuuri retorts. Their fridge is pathetic right now—almost empty, and he still doesn’t know where anything is. “What happened to all the food?”

“We ate it,” Phichit says, but then he shoulders Yuuri aside and shoos him away. “Your kettle is whistling. Get your tea and fix me one too. I’ll take care of this food business.”

“Life-saver,” Yuuri gasps, bumping his shoulder into Phichit’s in thanks.

By the time Yuuri’s tea is secured in his insulated cup, Phichit has managed to somehow scrape the bottom of the fridge into a sandwich, carrot sticks, and some chips. It’s a miracle.

“It’s not much,” Phichit says, but Yuuri steps in and hugs him tight. 

“Thank you,” Yuuri says as he takes the sandwich bag and heads for the door. “What would I do without you?”

“Die, probably.”

Yuuri slips on his shoes and pats himself down. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Lunch. Tea. Umbrella? He peers through the eyehole on the door and sees calm blue sky. He can risk it.

“Get moving,” Phichit urges him before breaking off with a yawn that stretches his upper body like a rubber band. “Or you’ll miss the bus.”

Yuuri waves one last time before he disappears out the door. 

When he steps out of their apartment building, he can already see his bus pulling up to the stop at the corner. 

_Shit_. 

Yuuri takes off running, because the buses here are bastards and absolutely do not wait for anyone. The drivers seem to operate on the theory that bus schedules are more like guidelines than actual rules, and Yuuri puts on a burst of speed as the last person in line climbs the steps. He manages the catch the folding door in his hand right as it’s beginning to close, stumbles on, and scans his bus pass.

He doesn’t even bother to give the bus driver a dirty look for almost leaving without him. It wouldn’t make any difference, aside from making his ride extra awkward.

Yuuri grabs the nearest handhold as the bus lurches forward, still gasping to catch his breath, and scans for an empty seat. There’s an elderly woman sitting near the front alone, but she has a bulbous quilted bag taking up the spot beside her. Her eyes meet Yuuri’s, and he gets the sense of being measured and found very much wanting.

Fine. He’ll stand.

Someday, Yuuri’s going to get the hang of this routine, but this is day three, and so far each morning has contained at least one miniature disaster. The first two days he had only been onboarding, training, and setting up his space, so the schedule had been slightly different, but today he’ll be on his own. 

Running to catch the bus and failing to tie a tie are much less important mistakes than, say, forgetting your wallet and keys and not realizing it until you’re already on the bus, so he’s already improved over where he was on day one.

Yuuri tucks his lunch and tea under his arm and tries to slick his hair back with one hand while clinging to the strap with the other. It’s awkward as hell, but he manages without dousing his white shirt in tea. It’s a win, by morning standards.

After a few stops, the bus finally screeches to a halt down the road from his office, and Yuuri files off alongside the other shuffling, under-caffeinated commuters. 

Wexler & Hart is at the top of a ten-story building, providing a view that might be awe-inspiring in another city. For Yuuri, whose “office” is one of a cluster of cubicles reserved for support staff, rare glimpses out the window only remind him that classes will be starting again in just a few short months. The next-tallest building in town is the university library, which looms in the distance, a memorial to sleepless nights.

It’s still ten minutes till nine, but the office is already bustling with activity, and more than half of the other cubicles are occupied. Yuuri hasn’t bothered to bring anything in to mark his desk yet, so it’s only by process of elimination that he remembers which one is his. He sets his travel mug on the desk and goes to the kitchen to put away his lunch and snag a cup of coffee.

When he returns with a chipped, floral-patterned mug in one hand, the office manager is already hovering next to his desk, holding a thick manilla folder and eyeing the arcade logo on Yuuri’s other mug with suspicion. Yuuri racks his brain to remember the man’s name. Richard? Or maybe Roger?

Uncertain, Yuuri settles for, “Good morning, sir.” 

The man straightens, flashing Yuuri a stiff smile. “Good morning, Yuuri. Settling in okay?”

“Yes, sir.” Yuuri sets his coffee down and shuffles through his desk drawer, subtly checking a note he wrote to himself in kanji. The office manager is called _Royce_. Good thing he didn’t guess.

“Good, good,” Royce nods, looking away when Yuuri turns around, as if Yuuri wouldn’t notice he was peering over his shoulder a moment ago. “Good news, then: we’ve accepted a new case, and we want you on it. It’s a good opportunity for you to follow something from start to finish, though you’ll still be assisting with other cases on an as-needed basis.”

Yuuri nods, tamping down on a surge of nerves. It feels _too soon_ , but he expected this. Wexler & Hart isn’t the most prominent firm in the area, but it’s far from shabby. They have their pick of interns, so of course they’re going to dump him in the deep end right away. It’s time to find out if Yuuri can swim.

“Follow me,” Royce says, and strides down the hall without waiting for a response. “I’ll introduce you to the attorney who’ll be taking lead on this one.”

The number of staff in the building is, frankly, overwhelming. W&H has employees with a vast variety of particular specialties, which is one reason Yuuri had hoped to get this internship. He met the other support staff and interns on his first days, but his only glimpse at the attorneys so far has been through brief flashes of contact when one of them popped into the kitchen for coffee or walked into the staff area to summon a clerk. Nerves dance along his skin like butterflies, raising chill bumps on his arms as he traces Royce’s steps through a maze of offices.

They stop in front of a simple wooden door, and Royce taps once before pushing it open. The small office they step into is plain, dominated by a black rectangle of a desk and a huge Swedish-style bookcase up against the back wall. There are no windows in the room, and the only decoration is a pair of ornately framed diplomas. 

A silver-haired man is seated behind the desk, his face obscured by the computer monitor. When Royce clears his throat, the man sits up straight, as if he hadn’t heard them knock or noticed the open door. 

He’s younger than Yuuri expected, handsome, with piercing blue eyes. He looks more like he should be posing on the desk for a fashion shoot than working behind it, half buried beneath stacks of paper and color-coded folders. When he sees Yuuri, his eyes slide down his body, and Yuuri finds himself conscious once again of his battered clip-on tie.

“Good morning, Victor,” Royce chirps, sliding his folder among the other papers scattered across the attorney’s desk. “Mr. Hart wanted me to bring this down to you. It’s a client you’ve worked with before.”

Victor turns the folder and opens it, leaning forward to peer down at the first page. As he reads, a frown gathers, creasing his brow. “An employment discrimination suit?” he asks, with an edge of disbelief. “This isn’t my usual area.”

Royce waves off the objection. “RBS requested you specifically. They were very impressed with the work you did during their merger with GCN last year.”

Eyebrows raised, Victor sits back in his chair and gives Royce a tight-lipped smile. “Sure,” he says. “And the accusation...?”

“No legs to it,” Royce says dismissively. “ _You_ know how much that company is worth now. They’ve assured us it’s just a disgruntled ex-employee with a grudge. It should be easy enough to settle.”

Victor raises a finger to his lips, as if he’s giving great consideration to his next question, but before he can finish the thought, Royce cuts in again. 

“The partners recognize this is outside your wheelhouse, and they anticipate a great deal of discovery, so they’ve assigned Yuuri here to assist you with this.” He claps Yuuri on the shoulder like a salesman showing off a used car, forcing a little ‘oof’ from Yuuri’s lungs at the force of it. “Yuuri’s one of our summer interns from SVU this year, just started, but I’m sure he’s quite capable. If you need anything else, feel free to ask one of the specialists on staff.” His smile barely qualifies as an expression, just a brief flicker of politeness before he accelerates. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of other business to attend to.” 

With that, Royce sweeps out the door, leaving Yuuri stranded in the silent office with Victor, a bride suddenly handed off at the altar for an arranged marriage to a total stranger. 

Victor’s lips are pursed, and his index finger taps at his mouth. He’s staring right through Yuuri, lost in thought, and Yuuri isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do now. Tentatively, he steps forward, then slides into one of the two slick black and chrome chairs in front of the desk. Victor doesn’t flinch or say a word. 

The silence stretches on until Yuuri can’t take it, shifting back and forth in the uncomfortable chair. If he’s not needed here, there are plenty of other tasks he could be working on, and Victor isn’t even reading the file, just staring at the wall over Yuuri’s head.

Finally, Yuuri prompts him, “May I see the case file?”

Victor jumps a little, silver eyelashes fluttering, then gives Yuuri a tight-lipped smile. “Of course,” he says, turning the folder and sliding it across the desk for Yuuri. “It’s your case too.”

Yuuri leans forward, scanning over the formal language in the summary, his eye trained to read over dense documents with ease. It doesn’t take long to see what had the attorney frowning. A former employee has filed a complaint against RBS, accusing them of discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. The plaintiff is alleging that he was terminated for no other reason but this his supervisors found out he’s gay.

It’s an interesting case, but, well, Yuuri can see why Victor had immediately asked if the accusation would hold water. Not many in this line of work go into the office _wanting_ to defend the bad guy.

Yuuri hears the click clack of typing and looks up to find Victor glued to his computer monitor once more. Victor types, rapid-fire for a minute, then turns to frown down at a piece of paper on his desk. He reaches over to a mug that proclaims _I’m Silently Judging Your Grammar_ and pulls out a pen, scrawling out a messy note in bright purple ink before swiveling back to the computer. The man’s barely acknowledged that Yuuri exists, leaving him with no idea what to do next.

“Do you need anything from me?” Yuuri prompts again.

Victor shakes his head, causing his bangs to fall over his eyes as he swivels in his chair. Finally, he looks Yuuri directly in the eye, swoops his hair back out of his face with one elegant hand, and smiles, though it’s still tight-lipped and forced, before quickly looking away again.

“Is this your first case?” Victor asks. Yuuri nods, wondering if he’s said something stupid, giving away his own ignorance. But Victor goes on, “I’m used to doing a lot of my own documents and research. I probably won’t need your assistance until we start to get the discovery in.”

Eyes back on the computer, hands back at the keyboard, Victor switches focus again, and once more he leaves Yuuri baffled. His earlier observation stands—Victor is gorgeous, but aside from that, Yuuri isn’t sure what to think of him. 

He decides that this counts as a dismissal and stands up, heading back to his cubicle to do some filing, when Victor calls out, “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri echoes, trying to keep the confusion out of his voice. “Nice to meet you too.” When he looks back, Victor is still engrossed in the computer. He’s tucked his pen behind his ear, and there’s a line of purple ink running from his cheek up to his sideburns.

Closing the door quietly behind him, Yuuri exits to the hall and tries to find his way back to the cubicle farm, wondering the whole time what, exactly, he’s in for with this first case, and what kind of attorney writes his notes in purple gel pen. 

-

Tori swishes off the stage a few nights later and walks directly into Chrissie’s waiting arms. 

Chrissie smirks when Tori stops short, holding out a white microfiber towel. “What?” she asks. “Here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“Of course,” Tori says, collecting herself as she takes the towel and dabs at the sweat that’s gathered at her hairline and the hollow of her throat. There’s a special sort of challenge inherent in performing in four-inch heels, a bustier and bustle, plus ten pounds of fake hair. Her fitness watch does not appreciate how much effort truly goes into the workout she gets on stage. She deserves double credit for those steps, at least.

Once Tori is finished cleaning up, Chrissie turns to toss the towel into the laundry. With her back turned, Tori takes the opportunity to give Chrissie a once-over. Her blonde wig is curled into perfect ringlets, and she’s clad top to toe in red latex, the hem of the skirt barely skimming her thighs, which is intriguing because—

“New dress?” Tori asks, as if it’s only a mild curiosity.

And Chrissie tosses her golden curls as she turns, leading from the hip, and pouts. “What, this old thing?”

Definitely new, then. “I thought you retired. Did you decide to fill my slot after all?” Tori says, walking to the dresser to pick up her face wipes. Chrissie snatches the package from her hand. 

“I’ll fill your slot alright,” Chrissie says, winking. She drops the wipes back onto the dresser. “Touch up your camouflage. We’re going out.” 

Tori eyes her up and down, dubious. She’s certainly dressed to go out clubbing, and it wouldn’t take more than a minute for Tori to fix up her foundation, but... “I have work in the morning,” Tori demures, stepping closer to the dresser to grab her makeup wipes.

“Please?” Chrissie’s voice stops Tori mid-stride. It’s not like her to ask _politely_. “We won’t stay out all night. I only want one drink out with you like old times, then we can call it a night.” Sensing blood in the water, Chrissie circles, then darts back in for the kill. “Just one last time before you leave us?”

There’s a tremor in her voice that’s fake as hell, but Tori can’t help it. She caves, dropping into the chair by the mirror and grabbing her powder instead of her cold cream. “Fine,” she groans. “You win.” She knows she’ll regret it already.

After the briefest of touch-ups, Tori and Chrissie weave their way through the patrons crowding the bar. It takes a while, as they both get stopped for selfies with more than one drunk Tori fan, then get swarmed by an entire bachelorette party right before they can reach the door, but at last they both make it out into the cool night air. 

It’s just cresting eleven, and the bars will all stop serving at midnight, so Tori rationalizes that they can’t get into too much trouble in the next forty-five minutes—even though she knows full well that isn’t true. 

Outside, the sidewalks are nearly empty. Sunday nights are much quieter than the Friday- and Saturday-night crowds Tori’s gotten used to, though the looming Monday hasn’t stopped everyone. It almost makes her nostalgic for her own undergrad days, when hangovers were just a fairytale and drinking on a school night didn’t seem like such a high-risk venture. Of course, she’s not so far out of those years as to forget the _less_ fun parts of them as well.

She follows Chrissie’s lead, crossing the street to cut across the little park pavillion at the central square, and they trade smirks as they pass the shadows of couples intertwined on the benches and hiding in the gazebo corners. _Young love._

When she sees the pink and yellow neon sign flashing ahead of them, Tori stops on the sidewalk so abruptly that her heels leave track marks on the pavement. “Oh god,” she groans. “Chrissie, _no_. Anywhere but there, please.”

Chrissie cocks her hip and folds her arms, with the smug smile of a woman who knows precisely what she’s done and planned the whole damn thing. “Don’t fool yourself, _cherie_. Where did you think we were going dressed like this?”

Fair point. There are only two gay bars downtown, after all, and going to an ordinary club in full drag is not an experience Tori feels like indulging in tonight. With a sigh of resignation, she squares her shoulders and allows Chrissie to lead her across the street to The Alley.

The bar may have a new sign outside and a new bouncer at the door—a tall, scruffy-looking blond, who barely looks old enough to be allowed inside himself—but little else has changed, and it certainly hasn’t _improved_. 

Inside, The Alley is darker than Tori remembers, and the floors cling to the soles of her Jimmy Choos like tentacles, gripping her tight to pull her back beneath the depths of obscurity. The corners of the bar echo with memories, but the room never seemed quite so small before. Her mind latches onto each image of long-erased graffiti, each new phone number carved into the wooden rim of the bar with a dull knife. On either side of the stage, the once-bright rainbow curtain hangs unused, faded and stained.

Time may not have been entirely kind to Tori, but it’s _ravaged_ The Alley.

The performer on stage is enacting a jerky parody, the deformed love child of drag and miming. She’s draped in purple velvet and sequins, with wing-like brows that look like they might start to flap and lift her right off the stage any moment, and she’s forgone a wig, sticking with a short and pointy style that’s more 1982 than it is 2016. “Look What You Made Me Do” blasts from the speakers. The combined effect is somewhat terrifying. 

“What are we doing here?” Tori asks, even as she leans up against the bar, the edge of it slotting perfectly into place beneath her ribs. “This place is a tomb of regrets. I didn’t know you were so nostalgic.”

“Don’t be so dismissive,” Chrissie says. She smiles wide at the bartender, beckoning him over with a single magenta-tipped finger. “We both popped our performance cherries here once, and plenty of others before us. If you’re leaving me, the least you can do is help me find our next legend in the making.”

Tori rolls her eyes so hard, she doesn’t even see the bartender pop up beside them—or maybe he’s just that quick. 

“Get you ladies anything?” the bartender chirps, a bright grin swallowing half his face. His Alley-issued crop top puts his smooth brown skin on perfect display, and Chrissie leans half her torso onto the bar—much further than she needs to to make herself heard.

“Do you have an older brother maybe?” Chrissie asks, batting her fake lashes like a pro. 

“The world can’t handle more than one of me,” the bartender counters, leaning in to meet her, though his eyes dart over to Tori. “I’m more than enough.”

It’s all so cheesy. Tori used to _love_ the cheesiness of it, but right now it rings hollow. Chrissie has a fiance waiting at home. It’s nothing but a game to her, and the bartender may very well be straight, though he seems a little too focused on Tori for that to be the case.

Chrissie orders them a couple vodka crans, shamelessly flirting with the bartender until Tori gives up and tunes them both out, turning her back on the bar to watch the room instead. It’s not quite dead tonight, though Sunday night drinking is always the home of the diehards, the drunks, and the people with strange schedules. There’s maybe a dozen patrons scattered around the room, perhaps a few more. It’s nothing close to the business Podium was doing tonight, but she spots a couple familiar regulars in one of the far corners who must have wandered over after her set.

Turning to Chrissie to point them out, she catches the bartender staring again.

This time he has the good grace to look chagrined. He grins at her, shamefaced as he slides her cocktail across the bar. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But my roommate is actually a really big fan of yours. _Really_ big. Like, might actually kill me for telling you this.”

Before Tori can respond, Chrissie leans in again, blocking her to interrupt. “Is your roommate cute? Because Tori’s still an old maid, and it’s about to fall off from disuse.”

“Chris,” Tori growls, forgetting herself.

But the bartender just laughs, waving them off. “She’s actually performing in a minute, if you’re planning to stick around? Her name is Saki—Saki Bomb.”

“Cute,” Chrissie smiles, then eyes Tori. “I’m certainly settling in for the night, but I believe Tori may be turning into a pumpkin soon.”

Tori shakes her drink at Chrissie in answer, pale pink sloshing up to the rim. “One drink,” she vows. “Then, I’m gone.”

“Lucky me,” Chrissie mutters, throws her own drink back, and nods to the bartender to fix her another.

On stage, the current performer drops to the floor, landing in a decent split as the music comes to a sharp end, and the bartender pauses, leaning over to a microphone set up between the bottles. He flips it on, waits out a painful second of screeching feedback, then announces, “Give it up for the bewitching Klara Bose, everyone!”

There’s a smattering of applause as the queen on stage waves with both hands, then hops off. “Coming up next... Miss Saki Bomb!”

Tori tilts her head at Chrissie, flipping her hair back from her face with a flick of the wrist. “We’re off to a grand start so far,” she drawls.

Chrissie only shrugs. “This is what you’ve driven me to. You see what I have to work with in this town?”

The already-low light in the bar dims, and for a second Tori thinks they may have actually lost power, but then the music cuts in, and the stage lights shift from white to blue as another performer steps out from behind the curtain.

“Well,” Chrissie says, appraising. “Well, well. Maybe all is not lost.”

Saki steps out to the center of the stage and clasps her hands in front of her, like a monk shuffling in for evening prayer. Her makeup is understated, but striking, and the cut of the black bob wig she’s wearing emphasizes her high cheekbones, but Tori can’t help but note the flaws in her presentation as well. 

Her dress is hideous, for one thing; bright blue, sequins, gold trim, _and_ ruffles? What thrift store hell birthed that monstrosity? Her wig is cheap as well, with a synthetic sheen still clinging to the hairline that Tori’s fingers itch to fix. 

After a too-long pause, Saki unclenches her hands and picks up the microphone, holding onto it like a lifeline as her lips fumble to catch up to the words. It verges on painful, but then, she finally starts to _move_.

Tori forgets the Ashlee Simpson-level lip sync as she watches the sway of Saki’s hips and reevaluates the girl’s skill level. There’s grace in the motion, poise to her posture that many amateurs lack obvious in the way she steps lightly in her stiletto heels. She spins on the point of one toe, and the base of her skirt flares out, cut up to her hips on both sides. It makes the dress look… slightly less offensive.

Saki reaches out toward the audience, palm open, and the movement is elegant but lacking. The song she’s chosen is _sassy_. It’s flirty. Her routine is not. Tori would have turned that gesture into a point—singled out someone in the audience with a come-hither finger and a playful smile. Saki’s sync has improved, but she’s not smiling; instead, she’s wide-eyed, as if still shocked to find herself on stage at all.

Tori’s not sure what to call the emotion welling up in her at first, but decides to label it _frustration_. The song choice is catchy. Saki’s got skill, beauty, and promise, but she’s still lacking something. She’s going through the motions, but her reach to the audience just doesn’t quite connect. 

Tori tastes water and realizes that she’s drained her drink just as the song ends and Saki stops dead, planting her hands on her hips. Chrissie claps along with the rest of the audience, sloshing her drink as she slaps her fingers against her wrist. 

She turns to Tori and stops at the sour expression on her face. “What crawled up your ass?” she asks. “I thought that was quite good.”

Shrugging, Tori sets her empty glass on the bar behind her. “It was fine. It could be better.”

“Well,” Chrissie says, voice tinged with amusement. “She obviously hasn’t been doing this for a decade, unlike some of us. She’s got the moves down. She probably just needs a good fairy dragmother.”

Tori hums, dubious. “She can dance, sure. I’m not arguing that, but she’s not selling it. You need charisma to connect with an audience— _you_ know that.You can give a girl stretches to get her splits on the ground, and you can do a makeover to fix sloppy eyebrows, but it’s a hell of a lot harder to teach someone how to have personality.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Chrissie admits, pausing to take a slow sip of her drink. “Maybe not. Either way, it sure sounds like you’re interested.”

Before Tori can comment, the bartender reappears, favoring them with another blinding smile. “Well, how about it?” he asks eagerly. “Sticking around for one more drink?”

Tori fishes her phone from her garter and glances at the screen. Thirty minutes shy of midnight, and she still needs to change back into civvies and walk Makkachin before bed. 

“I’m good,” she says, sliding her empty across the bar. Chrissie grumbles audibly, but Tori did warn her. “I’m going to be slammed at work this week. I can’t stay out on a weeknight like this anymore.”

Leaning over, she pecks Chrissie on the cheek, leaving behind not a sliver of her lipstick. “Be good,” she says. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Chrissie winks at her in reply. “I’ll text you if I manage to think of anything.” 

Tori sweeps out the door with a wiggle of acknowledgement to the bouncer, and crosses the street to walk back to Podium alone. Midway through the central square, she catches the echo of her own voice, still humming the song Saki was just dancing to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr screams welcome](http://louciferish.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The monthly update is here!
> 
> I've also added a chapter count. I went through what I have already to estimate after drafting this chapter, and I counted 14 chapters in total, and then I went through again and counted 13, so... let's stick to 14, with the number subject to minor changes. 
> 
> Added a "drinking" tag because there's a bit of that this chapter, just in case that hits someone's no button (hard to find in this fandom, but respect).
> 
> Please direct any complaints about my taste in music and/or costumes to my beta/personal attorney [astudyinrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose), who did a seriously marvelous turnaround time this chapter and is the best.

When Yuuri gets home from work on Thursday, he finds Phichit’s butt already planted on their ugly sofa, the Wii U controller gripped in both hands. A spare controller is laid out on the coffee table, ready and waiting. Phichit is the best roommate.

Yuuri pauses long enough to take his shoes off and drop his messenger bag by the door, then slips down onto the floor in front of the couch, not even bothering to change out of his work clothes before firing up player two.

“Rough day at the office, sweetie?” Phichit asks, even as his Pikachu avatar charges across the screen at Yuuri’s Link. 

“Not any worse than usual,” Yuuri replies. Link grabs an item and hurls it at Pikachu, throwing him off the screen, and Yuuri smirks. All’s fair in love and video games. “A lot of tendium. I did get to start writing up some basic motions, but everything I turn in comes back covered in red ink.”

“You expect that, though, right?” Phichit says. “You’re just starting.”

“Yeah.” Pikachu charges up, and Yuuri winces as Link gets hurled off the platform by the ensuing thunderbolt. “Still. I’m graduating soon. I feel like I should have learned all of this by now. I should be better at it.”

“You’re still in school,” Phichit points out. “School is _for_ learning to be better.” He hits pause on the game and leans forward to ruffle Yuuri’s hair. “Besides, I bet none of those fancy lawyers you’re working with know how to create a perfect wing with liquid eyeliner.”

Yuuri snorts. “Neither do I.”

“Yeah, but you’re probably better at it than they are.”

A image of Royce springs to Yuuri’s mind, his neat brown hair set in retro pin curls, a bright red pout on his lips. It would certainly make an impression on the office. An explosion on the TV shocks Yuuri back to the present. Phichit, a dirty cheater, has taken advantage of Yuuri’s distraction to end the match. Pikachu bounces around the screen, triumphant.

“Have you thought about the tryouts for Podium?” It’s not the first time Phichit’s asked. Yuuri usually tries to avoid the question, but he’s got nowhere to run right now.

He lets his game controller fall into his lap. “Yes,” he admits. “But also no.”

“Why not?” Phichit asks. His fingers sink into Yuuri’s hair, pulling the longer strands back out of his face. “It wouldn’t hurt to try.”

Yuuri sighs. “Don’t pretend. We both know I’m nowhere near Tori’s level. She might as well live on another continent.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Phichit says cryptically. Yuuri elbows him in the shin, craning his neck to see Phichit’s face.

There’s a smile hiding in Phichit’s eyes, trying to find its way out. He looks smug. Yuuri elbows him again, sharp. 

“Tori and Chrissie came by The Alley on Sunday night,” he admits, breaking into a grin at Yuuri’s shocked expression. “They stayed for your whole set.”

“Really?” Yuuri should maybe be embarrassed at how squeaky he sounds, but it feels like there’s a chip lodged in his throat. Tori… Tori had watched him? Tori had seen _Saki_ , and somehow Yuuri hadn’t _noticed_ her there?

“I couldn’t hear much of what they were saying,” Phichit continues. “But I think you made an impression.”

Yuuri hears him, but he can’t comprehend the words. For five long years, he’s waited. Five years he’s been practicing, learning any way he can and from anyone who will give him two minutes of their time. He’d always held a hope that someday he’d be able to stand side by side with Tori, sharing the same bill, even when the idea seemed out of reach.

Working in the same town, and with the LGBT community being so small, there had always been a chance that they’d run into each other by accident. But now that he knows it’s happened… he’s not sure what to think.

Phichit nudges his shoulder. “Are you dead?”

“Maybe,” Yuuri says, unsure if this new universe would be the good place or the bad one. 

“Next time you go see Tori, maybe say _hi_. That’s all I’m saying.” Phichit takes them back to the character select screen, switching his avatar to Kirby. “You never know what might happen.”

“Sure,” Yuuri agrees, mostly so Phichit will stop. After five years, Yuuri knows better. If he was going to approach Tori, he’d have done it by now. Tori saw him, and then she left. It changes nothing.

-

There are days when Victor’s caseload is relatively light, and he has time to return client calls and emails without a stack of paperwork threatening to topple from his inbox. Those days, he can absently scroll through Amazon for the latest and greatest in memory foam dog beds before taking a long lunch, and he feels very good about his decision to apply to law school.

Friday is not that day. 

When he arrived at the office—thirty minutes early—there was already a stack of folders piled on his desk, waiting for him, and his email was littered with messages marked “urgent”, many of which did not deserve that designation. It’s now half-past ten, and the red light of his voicemail is still blinking angrily at him, insulted at having been set aside in favor of other tasks.

Victor is typing a response to an internal message about washing out the communal coffee cups after use ( _Why was this flagged as important? I don’t even drink coffee_ ) when there’s a tap at his door.

He looks up to find the new intern lingering in the doorway, shifting his weight from side to side like he doesn’t know where to put himself. It takes Victor a minute to place the name with the face, but then the planets align and it springs to his lips.

“Yuuri,” Victor says with a brief smile. “Good morning. Can I help you with something?”

He tries not to be too proud of himself. Normally, it takes him longer to dredge up a new name. It’s made him a little infamous around both the office and Podium, so this is practically a record. He’d be a lot more pleased about it if it wasn’t clear that he only remembers “Yuuri” because he’s _noticed_ Yuuri, and the name is much easier to use than Cute New Guy.

Yuuri takes a step forward, but stops halfway between the door and the chair. “I wanted to check in with you about the RBS case?” It shouldn’t be a question, but the inflection is there in the twist of his words. 

“Has something come in?” Victor asks. He scoots some of his papers into a pile, uncovering the highly-decorated calendar affixed to the top of his desk, and checks the past few days for post-its or scribbled notations. If there’s been a development, he hasn’t written it down. _Fuck._ He really needs to get more organized.

At the top of Victor’s list of reasons to make partner: a personal secretary. It’s the only way he’ll ever manage.

“Uh.” Yuuri blushes so easily. It makes him seem young, though Victor knows he’s nearing the end of his degree. Full-time work will burn that out of him someday, but it’s nice right now. “Royce said we got discovery in the other day. He told me he left it with you?”

_Fuck. Again._

Victor digs frantically through his memory of the last few days, but his thoughts are about as well organized as his desk—probably worse. If his mind were a storage unit, it would be full of moldy leather-bound reference books, the important pages marked with bright pink feathers and yellowing Polaroids of his childhood. 

Somehow he requires an alarm on his phone for each of his appointments, but knows every single word to Savage Garden’s 1997 hit song, “I Want You.” Something has been horribly misfiled. 

He looks for discovery and comes up blank. If Royce brought Victor any documents recently, there’s no telling where Victor might have decided to put it.

His panic must read on his face, because Yuuri looks as unsteady as Victor feels.

Victor groans, burying his face in his hands and scrunching his fingers in his hair until he feels the pull at the roots. “I have no idea,” he confesses. “I don’t know where to look.” 

He peeks up from beneath the fall of silver covering his eyes, knowing what he’ll see:  
disappointment, irritation, anxiety.

Instead, Yuuri’s face shifts subtly. Despite his inexperience, his eyes are bright and resolute. He gives Victor a short nod. “Okay,” he says. “Where could it be? I’ll help you look.”

Victor could hug him. No. No, that’s inappropriate. Lawyers aren’t allowed to hug. Instead, he stands and tries to smile as he gathers his thoughts. “Thank you,” he says, first and foremost.

If Victor were a big cardboard box overflowing with discovery binders, where would he be?

“Conference room?” He suggests, just as an option. That’s one place these things tend to go, because it provides space to spread out the documents. “Or, maybe I had the forethought to try to leave it at your desk.”

“I didn’t notice it near my desk,” Yuuri says.

“Ah,” says Victor, raising a finger in objection. “But I don’t actually know which one is your desk, so it might be on someone else’s.” It could be just about anywhere. So far, the only locations they can eliminate are: other attorneys’ offices, the kitchen (maybe), and the bathroom (hopefully).

At least it’s somewhere to start.

In silent agreement, they split up and begin to search the floor. It’s a painstaking process. Discovery is most often stored in the same lidded cardboard boxes that printer paper is delivered in, which means that there are a great many identical boxes stacked in corners and waiting on desks. Victor has to check each one he comes across, looking for labels or bold black Sharpie scribblings. Then he still has to open the lid and look inside, because the boxes are so often reused that the contents may not match the exterior.

Victor searches the halls first, then loops through the cubicle area where the interns work. Yuuri is already searching in there, bent over to peer into the darkness beneath one of the desks. On the carpeted cubicle wall above him, there’s a single picture tacked up—the silhouette of a little group of people standing on a beach. Victor tries to make a mental note of this as the location of Yuuri’s desk, in case he needs it later. It probably won’t stick.

Back in the hall, he hesitates outside one of the conference rooms. Through the closed glass door, he can see that there’s a meeting going on. Darlene, one of the junior partners, sits on one end of the table, her hands primly folded in her lap as the intern next to her clatters away, taking notes of everything the client says on a laptop.

At the other end of the conference table is a box, red-lidded and identical to all the others. It _could_ be Victor’s box. He should check it, but doing so would mean interrupting the meeting. Across from Darlene, the clients are straight-backed and solemn in their dark suits. The man who’s speaking has his elbow on the table, his pointer finger jabbing at Darlene like a skewer.

The last thing Victor wants to do right now is stick his head into that meeting.

Nevertheless, he has his hand resting on the doorknob, about to pull the trigger, when Yuuri rounds the corner and saves him.

“Did you find anything?” Yuuri asks.

Victor drops his hand. “No,” he admits. “Did you?”

Yuuri shakes his head. Damn. If they can’t find it, they’ll have to ask Royce again, and Royce will get that pinched look around his eyes, and purse his lips, and then it will turn out he put it somewhere completely obvious, like Victor’s office. Victor will look ridiculous, but—

_Wait._

Without a word of explanation to Yuuri, Victor turns on his heel and strides off down the hall. Behind him, he can hear the soft thumping of steps on carpet as Yuuri follows him back to Victor’s office.

From the doorway, he spots it: a red and white box in the back corner, pushed up against his bookcase. Binders and papers are piled into it with little regard for organization. On the side, in bold black letters, it says **RBS Discovery**.

Victor sags against the door frame as Yuuri hesitates just behind him. Victor points across the room and waits for Yuuri to follow his finger, then hears the sigh as Yuuri sees it too.

“Well,” Victor says, forcing himself to sound cheerful. “We found it.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t see that,” Yuuri mutters, and Victor turns to face him. Yuuri’s expression is closed off now, his mouth twisted with disappointment.

No, Victor can’t have this. He remembers his internship—the way it all felt like more information and more work than a single student could possibly handle. At his first office, there had been a couple of guys who made a game of undermining the interns, giving them tasks that would be impossible to complete and enjoying the way it made the younger ones feel stupid and uncomfortable. That’s not Victor, and it never will be.

He balls his hand up into a fist and punches up into the air, then smiles when Yuuri’s eyebrows shoot up too. “Go team!” Victor declares, with relish. “We did it!”

Caught by surprise, Yuuri laughs, a little breathy and not quite real, but still, a laugh. His eyes are bright when he nods. “Go team.”

There’s a moment where they both stand, half-smiling at one another in the empty office, while Victor searches for something to say. His abandoned paperwork is calling to him, but—

“I’ll just… start on that discovery, then,” says Yuuri, interrupting Victor’s train of thought. “It needs to be scanned and redacted, right?”

“Right.” Victor nods, folding his arms across his chest. “If you have any questions about the documents, you can ask me, or Royce if I’m not available.”

Yuuri crosses the room, bends over, and hoists the box into his arms. “I won’t bother you,” he assures Victor. “Don’t worry.”

It’s the last thing Victor is worried about. He’d welcome a respite from the looming pile of folders still waiting on his desk, but he can’t blame Yuuri for wanting to get started on his work. 

“Keep me posted,” Victor calls to the intern’s retreating back, and then he’s left with no option but to drop back into his desk chair and resume squinting at the computer screen.

-

Yuri crouches over the cafe table to slurp at his soda again, then scrapes his tongue over his teeth in distaste. It _was_ a soda. Now it’s nothing but the sweetened metallic tang of melting ice. He chews the plastic straw, eyes focused out the window.

He’s had two false starts already, leaving his base to venture out after a group of young people in shimmering, tight-fitting clothes, only to peel off as they turn, veering into one of the many other bars along this stretch of downtown. After each attempt, Yuri was forced to return back to the cafe, defeated, and chase off anyone who dared to take his table while he was out.

Through the wide picture window he’s seated beside, Yuri can see every group of students that passes down the street in the direction of Podium. He only needs to find the right target. He scans the passerby for clues, and spots another likely cluster heading toward the clubs.

This group has both boys and girls in it, which is perfect, because Yuri would stick out like a cat in a ferret cage among a crowd of women in cocktail dresses and bridesmaid sashes. One of the girls catches his eye in particular: her short hair is twisted back in a pair of tiny ponytails, and she sports rainbow suspenders over her half-buttoned dress shirt. 

If this group isn’t going to Podium, Yuri will eat his Doc Martens. 

There’s a guy lurking near the cafe window with a laptop balanced on one arm and a cup of coffee in the other hand, and he’s watching all the occupied tables like a lion circling a herd of wildebeest, waiting for the weakest to stumble.

Well, Yuri will have to stumble. 

He pushes back from his table, the legs of his chair screeching on the battered wooden floor as he rises and heads for the door. Yuri feels air displace around him as the waiting student rushes past, diving for the table that Yuri just abandoned. Whatever. If Yuri doesn’t make it into the club this time, he’ll be on the next bus home anyway. That guy can have his spot.

Yuri shoves his way out the coffee shop door and stretches his insufficient legs to their limit to catch up with the group he’s targeted. It doesn’t take long—they’re strolling along, chatting with one another, their bodies casually brushing as they talk. None of them notices an eighth person slipping in among them. Yuri hunches his shoulders, withdrawing like a turtle into his hood.

As they approach the door of the club, Yuri shoulders forward, pushing himself up between Rainbow Suspenders and a guy in tattered jeans and a band tee. The same damn bouncer as before is working the door to the club, and Yuri turns his head away as he enters, pretending he has something to say to the guy beside him.

He can feel the air-conditioned breeze waft across his face as they shuffle closer to the door. It smells like sunscreen and salt with a sharp twist of something sour underneath, and he almost stumbles over the little rise in the floor that marks the threshold.

He’s in. He fucking did it.

Yuri sucks in a breath of relief as his eyes dart around the club. The room is dominated by a scuffed, checkered dance floor, pink and purple lights flashing across the tile, refracted by the disco ball hanging overhead. The back of the bar area is lit in strips of pink, white, and blue—soft pastels that draw the eye.

But what draws _Yuri’s_ eye is the stage. It thrusts out into the room, a long catwalk that cuts the club neatly in half. At one end of the catwalk is a stripper pole. At the other end is a cage. In the center, a crystal chandelier sparkles overhead. It’s everything he imagined, but real; raw, and now Yuri gets to be part of it. 

He needs to get a spot near the stage, far away from the door and the bar. Scanning the room, he spots an empty corner, just out of range of the roving disco lights, and makes a move toward it.

A hand encircles his upper arm, stopping Yuri in his tracks, and he turns around, puffed up and ready to spit.

He looks up. He was prepared to deal with the bouncer again, or some handsy old pervert. He wasn’t at all ready to find himself captured by a tall, sparkling queen with tight silver spiral curls cascading over her shoulders like hundreds of snakes. 

Yuri knows her immediately from the posters outside, and from stalking Podium’s social media. Tori Adore. She’s touching him—solid and _real_ , her grip on his arm just a shade too tight. 

There’s a guy watching over her shoulder with close-cropped dark hair and narrowed eyes, but Yuri notes him only in passing, watching in rapt fascination as Tori’s bubblegum pink lips twitch up in a smirk.

“Oh, Jujube,” Tori calls out in a lilting tone. She tugs Yuri’s arm as she turns, spinning him back to face the doorway. “I don’t believe that this little kitty belongs in here just yet.”

_Shit._ The bouncer first scowls at Tori, but when he sees Yuri’s face beneath his hood, a grin crawls across the man’s face. 

“Princess!” he exclaims, sounding genuinely thrilled to see Yuri. “Wow, you almost made it today, huh?”

“I _did_ make it,” Yuri growls. He tries to pull away—stupid. He has nowhere to run.—but Tori’s grip on his arm firms until he can feel her fake nails pressing into his flesh as she shuttles him toward the door.

“Your effort is appreciated,” Tori says. “But this in here is grown-up time. Come back in a few years, and bring the attitude with you, tiger.”

Yuri manages to wrench his arm free as they reach the doorway. Tori gives him a parting nudge between his shoulder blades, and then he’s back on the sidewalk, the door of the club swinging softly closed behind him.

“Better luck next time!” the bouncer calls to Yuri’s back as he stalks off. “JJ will be waiting!”

Yuri fumes as he slinks away. None of them are taking him seriously, but they will. He’s tasted victory now, sweet as cotton candy on his tongue. He’s not giving up.

As he stalks down the road to the bus stop, Yuri eyes the door to The Alley and the gangly blonde giant that guards it. For a flash, he considers the option. It would be easier. It would be similar. 

But it’s not the same. Yuri’s seen the reviews online and the chatter in local groups. If The Alley is beer, then Podium is champagne. Yuri’s not the type to settle. He’s going right to the top.

For now, though, he’s got a bus to catch. If he hurries, Grandpa won’t even notice he was gone.

-

Saki’s heel has barely touched the stage steps Friday night before Phichit grabs her hand. He tugs Saki away from the back door, out into a crowd that’s still applauding her performance, and hauls her over toward the bar.

“Where are we going? Phichit?” At the tables around them, the patrons watch them pass, amused and baffled as they continue to clap, and Saki feels herself flush under their scrutiny. They probably can’t see her blush under all the layers of foundation and bronzer, but it’s still embarrassing.

“Podium,” Phichit responds, throwing a grin back over his shoulder at her. 

“Can I at least change clothes first?” Saki asks, trying not to stumble or catch a heel in the warped floorboards of the club.

“No time! Tori’s going on _now_.”

Phichit pulls them through the door, whirling past Emil, who waves cheerfully at the cloud of glitter and perfume they leave in their wake. At first, Saki tries to pull back and resist Phichit’s urging, but the warm night air wraps around her like a satin robe, swelled with the sounds of music and laughter and the flash of street lights. Tomorrow, she’ll regret running in heels, among other things. Now, the excitement of an open Friday night catches her up in its embrace, and she leaps in to meet it.

Saki can’t remember the last time she did this with Phichit, disregarding their responsibilities and taking off on a night out together. It must have been when she was still an undergrad. She hadn’t even noticed the ways in which her day life crept into this one, because it happened so gradually, but oh—she missed this.

Hand in hand, they run through the central square, Saki’s heels sinking into the soft turf of the park, until they reach the other side and hop out into the street, dodging through the stalled traffic alongside a few other eager college kids.

They reach the door just in time. The speakers in the club are pumping Tori’s introduction out onto the sidewalk, and the bouncer waves them in without checking their IDs. Maybe Saki should feel insecure about that, but if anything she’s proud. She’s a regular. Getting that status a few years back felt as good as making the Dean’s List.

Tori’s hips sway hypnotically as she sashays out to center stage, and the audience screams. The tiny slivers of light from the disco ball overhead flashing off the silver studs and accent on her black leather jacket. It hangs long, nearly to her thighs, almost-but-not-quite concealing the corseted black romper that makes up her costume. There may be more fabric in her thigh-high fishnets than there is in that leotard. Her wig for the night cascades down her back in tight ringlets, and at Saki’s side, Phichit sticks his fingers in his mouth and wolf-whistles.

The unmistakable sound of a Cher classic blares out over the speakers, and Tori twirls her back to the audience, reaching up to scrunch her hair with both hands. 

It’s an appropriate music choice, because the moment Tori looks back over her shoulder, her eyes meet Saki’s over the haze of lights and the top of the crowd, and it’s like pressing rewind on the last five years. Tori is just as devastating as the first time. Saki is just as overwhelmed with desire.

Cold, damp glass presses into Saki’s palm, and she drops back into the present with a start. Phichit flashes her a grin, his eyes almost black in the multicolored lights, and raises his own glass in toast. Both cups are filled with something swirling and electric blue. 

They clink the cocktails together and Saki finds the straw with her lips as she turns back to the stage. Tori’s made her way down catwalk and into the cage set at the other end. She grabs the top of the cage and pulls herself up, feet swinging out through the bars in a spread eagle.

Saki sips her drink. It explodes across her tongue—aggressively sweet, but also _strong_. The sharpness of the liquor catches her off guard and her eyes water a little as she resists the urge to cough. On stage, Tori dismounts the cage and strolls out, spinning around the side to writhe back on the bars. Saki bends to take the straw deeper in her mouth, bypassing the warning sensors on her tongue.

The room is electric. Tori has her standbys and her signature moves, but she’s been known to bring out new tricks on stage without so much as a hint of what she’s planned. The energy in her performance is always _anything could happen_. 

When Tori struts to the other end of the stage and rests one palm on the pole there, Saki thinks she can hear the whole club suck in a breath in anticipation. Or maybe that’s just her, sucking down half her hideous blue drink in a single gulp, nearly choking on the burning liquid. But Tori doesn’t mount the pole. She only runs her hand down the gleaming steel in a suggestive motion as she drops to her heels, knees spread wide, her smooth movement in perfect time with the song.

_God._ It’s been five years, and Tori’s performances only get further out of reach. Saki clutches the front of her own dress, painfully conscious of the shine on her synthetic wig and the way her navy blue mini-dress hangs loose between her shoulder blades, the elastic in the bodice stretched out after coming to her second-hand.

Saki could devote the rest of her life to practicing and never come close to the poise and energy that Tori gives off every time she sets foot on the stage.

With a snap, the song comes to an end, and the crowd at the bar erupts in cheers, applause, and _very_ suggestive catcalls.

Phichit’s elbow knocks Saki in the ribs as Tori leans down from the stage, kneeling to accept a single blue rose from an admirer in the first row. “Now’s your chance,” Phichit says. “Go say hi!”

Saki sips her drink for courage, but the straw only slurps up empty air. “Uhh… not right now,” she says, shaking the ice in her glass for emphasis. “Maybe after another drink?”

“Sure,” Phichit agrees, eyes narrowed. “Okay. _One_ more drink, and then we go talk to Tori and Chrissie—right?”

“Right.”

As she waits for Phichit to bring her another horrifying blue thing, Saki watches Tori perch herself on the side of the stage, long legs dangling off the edge. Tori leans forward to catch a comment from one of the patrons nearby, tucking her hair behind one ear and laughing as an awkward little twink tucks some cash into her bodice, his face cherry-red.

“Voila,” Phichit presents Saki with her drink. “The bartender here is an _amateur_ ,” he yells into her ear as the DJ in the corner booth starts up a new song. “Barely eighteen! He can’t even taste his own drinks!”

Saki hasn’t seen the bartender, but after a single sip, she has to agree with Phichit’s assessment. Whoever Phichit has been getting these little blue bitches from clearly still needs training. 

She can feel Phichit watching her from the corner of his eye as she sips at her drink, so she pretends to be engrossed in watching the other customers grinding and writhing on one another in the space cleared between the tables. Tori isn’t visible from the back of the club anymore, camouflaged by a crowd of color and sparkle, but Saki knows that Phichit won’t allow her to back down on her promise to speak with her idol.

With a few centimeters of cerulean liquid still lining the bottom of her glass, Saki passes her cup to Phichit. “I’ll be right back,” she yells into his ear over the music. “Bathroom. Watch my drink!”

“Bold of you to trust me,” Phichit replies with a wink. Sweet, not-quite innocent Phichit. He has no idea what a horrible friend Saki is about to be.

She pushes her way into the crowd until she’s sure Phichit won’t be able to see her, then turns toward the bar, angling away from both Tori and the bathrooms. It’s not that Saki’s a liar, really. She just isn’t ready. And she’d had her fingers crossed behind her back the whole time. 

The bartender on this side is a Korean boy with a serious case of resting bitch face, but he clearly knows what he’s doing when he pours. Saki’s third drink comes with a free shot from a very drunk blonde girl who slurs repeatedly into Saki’s ear about how much she “fucking loves your legs, man—holy shit,” and Saki is just drunk enough now to smile and let it pass. 

She’s also drunk enough that a few minutes later, when a shirtless boy with the ghost of a two-pack passes by holding a tray of test tube shots in shades of rainbow neon, buying one seems like a fabulous idea. She throws her head back and lets the sticky sweet burn of it coat her tongue and warm her ribs.

The DJ is cutting through a variety of songs, transitioning so smoothly from one to the next that it feels like a single continuous melody. A familiar beat thrums underneath the current selection, and Saki starts to sway, unconsciously recognizing the music. Phichit’s head surfaces over the crowd around them, and he cuts through the dancers to find Saki at the bar.

“ _There_ you are,” he gasps. “I’ve been looking for you, you little sneak—”

Saki grins. She knows, certainly, that she ran away from Phichit, but now she reaches out for him with both hands as the song’s hook lands. _She knows this one._

“Dance with me,” she yells over the chaos of the crowded bar, lunging forward to grab Phichit’s hands. “Phichit! This is my song!”

Phichit grins back as he catches her around the waist, eyes lighting with recognition. “It is!”

It’s one of Saki’s _many_ songs, but this one in particular is a recent favorite. She’s been lovingly crafting a routine to it for over a month, but it’s still a work in progress. Only Phichit has seen it come together, in fits and starts within their apartment, or at The Alley before opening hours. 

When Yuuri practices this in his dance gear, he loves it, but he still has doubts. The routine feels aspirational, something Saki won’t truly be ready to perform for a long time—if ever. 

But drunk Saki has exactly zero fucks to give, and this is _her song_ , dammit.

She pulls Phichit in, holding his hips to sway in time with her beat, as he follows the steps with her guidance and a little edge of memory. His eyes are sparkling, his smile unrestrained. 

Someone taps Saki on the shoulder and she turns to find the shit-faced blonde girl from before. Well, why not? Saki reaches out to her in return, pulling her into orbit. After her, there’s another stranger, then another. 

At some point, Saki takes a half-step back, and her thigh runs up against the edge of Podium’s stage. The pole is just a couple feet from her, a gleaming beacon. She puts her hands on the stage, and someone behind her hoists her up from the waist.

There’s a brief flash where part of her realizes what’s happened—she’s _on stage_ at _Podium_ , but then the curve of the metal pole is familiar and cold beneath her palm and, delighted, she gives it a swing. The room spins and tilts, bright colored lights flashing off a veritable sea of indistinguishable faces. Between her poor eyesight, the booze, and the lights, she couldn’t even pick her own mother out of a lineup from up here. It’s a strangely comforting thought. 

Someone in the crowd—Phichit?—hoots when Saki hooks her leg around the pole and twirls. There’s a bark of laughter from the dance floor, but the fuzz in Saki’s head overrides the whispers of anxiety trying to tell her the joke is at her expense. Her short dress rides up her thighs, and she reaches up, clamping down on the pole between her legs to climb higher.

With the song pounding through her veins, all Saki feels is the muscle memory of the routine. She spins, hanging upside down, and feels dizzy, edging onto queasy, but that’s nothing new. It’s only a different quality of ill from the sort she usually feels on stage. Her dress hem resists the full effort of her spread eagle, but it doesn’t matter. It’s only practice, after all. 

As the final chorus wraps up, Saki swings herself around the pole again, a giggle slipping from her lips as the club goes sideways, and then drops. Her splits are… not perfect. Stupid dress. She hikes the hem up to her hips and sinks down to a full spread. It’s satisfying. 

The DJ segues seamlessly into the next song, and the crowd in the club cheers loudly. Saki doesn’t recognize the opening bars, but it must be a popular tune to prompt that kind of reaction. Using the pole for leverage, she hauls herself back to her feet, tottering slightly on her heels as she steps over to the edge of the stage and squints, scanning the audience for Phichit’s familiar features. A few kind people reach up, offering her help to step down from the stage.

Phichit is nowhere to be seen, but someone else _does_ catch Saki’s eye. 

Just a few feet away, Tori waits in all her glory, the flashing lights of the disco ball all wrapped up in the curls of her hair. Her face is tilted up, glitter in the rise of her cheekbones and the corners of her eyes, and, looking at Saki, she smiles.

_Looking at Saki._

She barely feels the strange hands beneath her arms, lifting her down from the stage. She floats out into the crowd, soaring. Saki’s toes only graze the sticky bar floor as she falls forward, straight into Tori’s open arms.

“Woah,” Tori says, her fingers tight on Saki’s forearms. Her eyes are intensely blue this close. Saki thought that was photoshop on the posters, but apparently not. “Watch out for—”

Saki lunges forward, throwing her arms around Tori’s neck. Her wig is so soft. _Holy hell._ How does she get it so soft? Saki curls a strand around her finger, marveling at the color. 

“Tori,” she coos. She must be smiling like an imbecile, but she’s dizzy with happiness. So many years, and Tori finally _saw_ her. “Tori, you’re so pretty. You know that, right? Sooo pretty. Did you see me dance? Did you like it?”

She twists the silver strands around her fingers again, and drops her eyes from Tori’s to frown down at the hair. “Where on earth do you buy these wigs?” she mutters. 

“I liked your dancing,” Tori says, so quiet Saki can barely make it out over the bumping bass running through the floor. “Very much.” Her fingertips are on Saki’s face, brushing her skin, tucking the synthetic black of Saki’s wig back behind one ear and sparking a thrill along her spine. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

Saki can’t believe her luck. Tori saw her. She _spoke_ to her. She wants to know who she is! Saki smiles wide, and says, “Yu—”

“Saki!” Phichit’s voice shatters the moment as his hand comes to rest on her shoulder. “There you are!” He does an obvious double-take, suddenly realizing who she’s been talking to, then grins, “Oh, yay! You found each other after all.”

Phichit is the best. Saki’s so lucky, having a friend like Phichit who encourages her. She turns to wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him close again. 

“Phichit, you’re so good.” Phichit laughs, and she tries to firm up her expression. She needs him to know she’s serious. She takes his face in both hands, holding him still so he’ll stop swaying side to side in her field of vision. “You’re so good.”

“You’re so drunk!” Phichit exclaims, delighted. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

_Did what? Oh, the dancing._ “I did great,” Saki says proudly. “Did you see me? Tori says I did great.” 

But when she turns around, Tori isn’t there, just a crowd of strangers, all wrapped up in each other. No one is looking at Saki any more.

“You did do great,” Phichit confirms. He loops an arm around Saki’s waist and hauls her in closer. “Come on. Let’s get you home to sleep this off, huh? Next time we go out, I’m handcuffing you to me.”

“Kinky,” says Saki, letting Phichit take her weight. Her heels are too high, and the balls of her feet are sore. “I want to take my shoes off.”

“Soon,” Phichit promises, as they stumble out the club door attached at the hip. “Very soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yell at me on [Tumblr](https://louciferish.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/louciferish) as well, or follow me for chapter previews if that's the kind of thing you're into.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Thanks for your patience at my slight delay getting this chapter up. I've been aiming to post each new chapter by the first of the month, but for April I had two crack fics to post on the 1st and I try not to overlap stories too much.
> 
> Nothing new to alert you about for this chapter, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Thanks, as always, to Amanda for betaing and also listening to me ramble.)

Tori takes a reluctant step back as Saki’s friend appears. She has a policy of not getting into the middle of other people’s business, but she can’t shake a twinge of disappointment at the interruption, right as things were really getting interesting. She lets the push and pull of the crowd nudge her back until she can lean into the bar. Seung-gil spots her, and Tori waggles her fingers in hello. The bartender never loses his familiar scowl, but he does take a momentary break from his paying customers to pour her a shot—vodka, twist of lemon.

“Looks like you made a new friend,” Chris comments, materializing at her side. Tori’s empty shot glass thunks onto the steel bar top, and Chris snatches away what’s left of her lemon, nibbling at the tart flesh. “I can’t believe I’m only twenty-five and you’re already trading me in for a younger model.”

Not in the mood to assuage Christophe’s vanity, Tori shrugs in response. “She’s cute. She’s got potential.” _Saki_. Potential may be an understatement.

“You do realize she’s the same one we saw before, right? The one from The Alley you said had no charisma?” Chris nods to where they can still see Saki hanging off her friend next to the stage. Now that he mentions it, something clicks, and Tori recognizes the friend as well—the bartender at the other club, the one with the bright smile. _My roommate,_ he’d said, _Saki Bomb_.

“Seems she has some sexual presence after all,” Chris muses with a smirk that Tori tries not to acknowledge. “Doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” Tori murmurs. “She certainly does.”

She can’t resist glancing over to where Saki was, hoping for another glimpse of that smile. But Saki has vanished, no doubt on her way back home to sleep off her exploits, and the rest of the crowd is dispersing as well. Soon, the fluorescent overhead lights will come on, exposing the stark reality of smudged eyeliner and acne scars, leaving behind only the very drunk and the very desperate on the dance floor.

Tori prefers to make her exit well before that time arrives.

When Chris becomes distracted by their newest bartender, hopping over the bar to guide the boy’s hand and correct his pours, Tori takes the opportunity to slip away. She glides through the crowd like a luxury cruise liner, the remaining audience parting to either side to allow her through, and circles the stage, exiting through the rear door into the back rooms.

As she lifts off her wig, Tori can feel the tension seep away from her neck and shoulders, her muscles relaxing as they no longer have to compensate for a tower of extra hair. From there, it’s all familiar ritual—removing the jewelry, the clothes, the makeup bit by bit, carefully disassembling a work of modern art.

There’s a point in all this process, a sort of in-between state in which nothing quite fits—Tori, without her clothes or her hair or her makeup, but also Victor, for some reason dressed in stockings, his short hair slicked back beneath a wig cap. It’s a strange state, discomfiting, and they press through this part quickly. 

It’s only once Victor is down to his underwear alone, his hair wetted in the sink and combed back into his usual style, that he feels like himself again. Tori is nothing more than a pile of curling silver on a wig stand or a scattering of cheap acrylic nails in a pile on the dresser. 

Once Victor’s costume pieces are all either stowed in the dressing room closet or safely folded into his duffel bag, he makes a quiet exit out the back door of the club, into the dark alley behind. The narrow gap between Podium and its neighbor, a salon called A Cut Above The Rest, amplifies the sounds of the downtown streets and sidewalks, as students and professionals alike spill from the closing bars and make their wobbling way to the all-night diners and cafes.

While the city is winding down, Victor cuts through a brick-lined lane with no company aside from the stench of dumpsters and the cries of rats frightened by his passing footsteps. He keeps to the back roads and narrow alleys as he walks the two blocks back to his building, emerging at last beneath a street light across the street from his condo.

The building’s doorman raises his hand in greeting as Victor appears. It’s been the same man at the front door for the whole three years Victor’s lived here, and he’s always utterly unfazed by the strange habits of the tenants. Victor’s probably not the only person in the building who regularly comes home at alarming hours, looking like he’s been hit by a truck, though he may be the only one who got hit by a truck filled with _glitter_.

He slips a cash tip to the doorman as he scans a badge and opens the secured door for Victor. His lack of comment on the hour and Victor’s appearance are very much appreciated. 

Victor’s footsteps echo as he crosses the gleaming hardwood floors of the building’s empty lobby, past its broad-leafed potted plants and burbling stone-covered fountain, and scans his security key at the elevator. 

By the time Victor makes it to the fifth floor and navigates the wide, dark-carpeted halls of his building, exhaustion has settled heavy on his eyelids. His key clicks into the lock, and he can feel Makkachin on the other side of the door, pressing her nose into the gap hard to greet him. He drops his bag and kneels on the cool hardwood floor, arms out, to give her a full-body cuddle. 

Some would say he spoils her, but he can’t help it. He spends so much time out of the house, away from Makka. He knows she loves her dog walker and her daycare, but he still feels guilt churning in his gut each time he comes home late like this. He can’t deny her little pleasures like extra cookies or a spot on his bed. If nothing else, they can press close together while they sleep.

Makkachin is a significant factor in why Victor is planning on putting Tori out to pasture. His work schedule will still be busy, but at least he’ll have these weekend evenings free to spend more time with his best girl.

She dashes off to get a toy, overstimulated from all the sudden attention, and Victor crawls back to his feet to get his bag. He kicks his shoes off by the door and pads barefoot through the cold living room, pausing to turn off the lamp before feeling his way in darkness the last few feet to his bedroom.

Stowing his bag in the closet, he flips the switch for the vanity lights in the bathroom. The harsh white tones throw everything into a stark relief, faint lines beneath his eyes deepening to canyons. Ducking his head away from the mirror, Victor begins the routine of getting ready for bed, scrubbing the sweat and makeup and glitter off of his tired skin. He dries his face and examines his visage in the mirror, narrow blue eyes scanning as always for any flaws, any hints of age.

Instead, he sees Tori—there, in the corner of his eye and the curve of his hand as he dabs moisturizer into his cheek. He always seems to find her in the most unexpected of places. 

Even if he quits drag tomorrow, Victor knows it will take years to peel her away, her dresses stacked and folded in a box and her shoes gathering dust in the bottom of some wardrobe. The clubs will move on to some new darling, and the posters of Tori will fade from pink to white with age beneath layers of other advertisements, but still Victor knows she will haunt him, her restless spirit unfulfilled.

Victor turns off the bathroom light, dropping Tori into the darkness, and goes to bed. 

-

The week following Saki’s embarrassing night out is _slow_ in the intern pen, and Yuuri isn’t sure what to do about that. 

He has discovery to catalog still, but he’s made good progress already. He arrives on Wednesday morning to a shockingly clean desk, and—knock wood—no one has come along to ruin that yet.

The lull in assignments feels subtly wrong, and Yuuri can’t help but wonder if it’s a test. He’s gone by the front desk to see Royce for suggestions of what he could do next, but Royce’s desk is empty, holding only a post-it note stuck to his chair stating that he’d be in a meeting until lunch.

Yuuri swings from side to side in his chair, listening to the clack of other interns typing away. He refreshes his email inbox, but it’s still empty. Finally, he gives in, pulling his phone from his pocket to check his personal email. There’s not much worth noting. His favorite dance supply store is running a sale on leggings, and Yuuri thumbs through the options. The shimmering blue ones are nice.

“Good morning!” Victor’s voice, right over Yuuri’s shoulder, makes him jump, fumbling for the power button on his phone to darken the screen.

“Ah, good morning.” Yuuri drops his phone face down on his desk and spins to face Victor. “Sorry about that,” he blurts, frantic to explain. “The phone, I mean. I know I shouldn’t be on-”

Victor waves his hand, and Yuuri lets the excuses die. Somehow, Victor looks even more handsome than usual today—a tailored deep grey vest over a pale blue dress shirt that makes his eyes pop, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. Not for the first time, Yuuri wonders how a forearm can look so attractive.

“Don’t worry,” Victor says with a wink, bangs falling over his eyes at the motion. “I won’t tell anyone. I’m a little distracted myself today.” He leans back on an empty table, which rocks with the extra weight, and stretches his legs out. “I thought I’d stop by and see how the discovery is coming along.”

“Good!” Yuuri turns back to his computer, pulling up the files he’s scanned to show Victor what he has so far. “There are still several more pages to scan, but the progress has been good.”

He stops himself there, considering what else to say. Even though the scanning isn’t complete, Yuuri has been noticing something in the documents that feels… off. It might not mean anything at all, except that someone in the client’s office is remarkably disorganized. Yuuri would hate to mention it, only to find it was nothing worth saying. He taps his fingers on the top of his desk.

“What is it?” Victor asks. The table creaks as he stands up, moving to the back of Yuuri’s chair, and Yuuri can feel him hovering just over his shoulders. “If you’ve found anything I should know about-”

“I don’t _think_ I have?” Yuuri admits, still uncertain. Victor seems interested. It might not hurt anything to come out and say it. “Parts of the documentation are a bit strange.”

“What do you mean? Strange in what way?” Victor’s hands sink into the back of Yuuri’s chair behind his shoulders as he leans in for a better look at Yuuri’s monitor. 

Victor’s proximity prickles at Yuuri’s skin, not quite comfortable but also not disturbing. He usually doesn’t like people looming over his shoulder at the computer this way. It makes him feel guilty, even when he has nothing to hide, but the creak of the fake leather chair beneath Victor’s fingers is nothing compared to how the back of Yuuri’s neck warms, like a sensor reacting to his presence.

Yuuri tries to push the distraction away. He pulls up the next PDF file and scrolls through, looking for an example as he explains. “They sent over a lot of long email chains as documentation, and the messages are numbered with Sharpie at the top right corner.” He taps the screen to draw attention to an example. “I tried to put them all in numerical order, but it hasn’t quite worked. A couple of the chains jump around chronologically, there are duplicates all with different numbers, and it looks like there are gaps as well.”

“Did they leave anything out?” Victor leans in closer. The hairs on Yuuri’s neck start to rise, responding to Victor’s body heat, and Yuuri stiffens.

For a moment, he can’t process the question.

Swallowing back the tightness in his throat, Yuuri licks his lips as he gathers his thoughts back into proper order. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “I still have more to look at, so it _could_ be in the other files, but then why are they numbered this way? It’s all a big mess.”

“Do you need a second set of hands? I can help you sort through what’s left.”

Yuuri’s struck speechless by the offer. None of the other interns have ever offered to help him with one of his tasks, much less an attorney. 

Maybe Victor thinks Yuuri can’t handle it alone.

“No, no,” Yuuri insists once he can find his voice, waving his hands urgently. “I have it under control, really. I’m sure you have more important things to spend time on.”

Victor draws back to allow Yuuri room to turn his chair. “Are you sure?” He tilts his head, considering. “I have some free time. Oh! What about lunch? Are you free?”

“What?” _Lunch?_

“Or coffee—do you drink coffee?” Victor continues, tapping one finger on his chin, oblivious to the roil of Yuuri’s confusion. “We can take a break and review your findings in more depth over some drinks.”

This is not a position Yuuri expected to be in, and he’s not sure it’s appropriate, even if it is technically a working lunch. Unless he’s imagining things—but no, there _is_ a hint there that Victor is attempting to be, at the very least, friendly.

There’s a flurry of activity and voices down the hall, and a small cluster of other attorneys passes by the entrance to the cubicle farm. One of the men in the group, noticing Victor, pauses to raise a hand in greeting.

“Hey,” the man calls out as the rest of the group wanders toward the elevators. “We’re headed out to lunch—you coming?”

“One second, José.” Victor shoots a glance toward Yuuri, almost as if he’s a child looking for permission to go play with his friends.

“You should go with them,” Yuuri says quickly. He taps on his computer screen. “I’ll keep working on this, and I’ll let you know when I have more information to work with.”

A sunny smile breaks across Victor’s face. “Great,” he says. “Rain check on that coffee, then.” Before Yuuri can respond to that, he turns and strides off to catch the other lawyers at the elevator bank.

Yuuri watches him go, curious. There’s something about Victor that he can’t quite put his finger on, some quality to his movement and his look that makes him stand apart from the others. As he mingles into the group in the lobby with a tight smile, it’s like watching a robin in the midst of a flock of sparrows—a little bit flashy, a little out of place.

Turning back to his computer, Yuuri props up his chin on his hand as he scrolls through the document. His eyes scan the emails for a needle of relevant content among the mountain of corporate bullshit, but his thoughts are circling back to Victor, replaying how his smile had shifted ever so slightly as he stepped from the intern pen into the lobby. 

-

The downtown party scene always hits a lull in mid-summer. Most of the undergrad students from the university have gone home to see family or taken off on vacations, leaving behind only the bare few who live in town year-round and the poor suckers stuck taking summer courses. Because the summer classes are so intense and test so frequently, even that population is unpredictable, which leads to Friday nights like this one: dead quiet.

Chris barely even raises an eyebrow when Tori says she doesn’t want to perform tonight. There’s no rule that says she has to, and if the bar is still dead after eleven, the staff will want to close early anyway. 

It all works in Tori’s favor, because the last thing she wants is for Christophe to get _curious_ about why she’s leaving early. 

She hangs around the club, flitting from table to table and flashing her big faux lashes at the regulars. This has never been her preferred method of working—performance is her medium—but Tori knows the customers feel more connected to the bar when they get a little personal attention, and the way they tuck their faded dollar bills into the garter on her thigh proves it. 

Tori always shares her tips with the whole staff now that she doesn’t need the money to pay bills. Tonight, she hikes up the slit on her skirt and drops the entire wad of cash into the tip jar after a couple hours of circulating. She smiles with lips sticky from plumping gloss, and the new little bartender, Leo, flushes when she winks. With her bases covered by the tip-out, not even JJ raises a fuss when she slips out onto the sidewalk a few minutes after ten.

Even the streets are quiet tonight. The cafes are doing a good business—bright lights, free wi-fi, and the rich scents of chocolate and coffee waft down the street. Tori can see students piled at every table through the paned glass windows, their hands shaking and eyes bleary as they pour over books and clatter away on their laptop keyboards. Now _there’s_ an undergrad activity Tori does not miss. Nostalgia can only last as long as it doesn’t meet reality.

Since it’s quiet out and she’s alone, she takes her time and wanders along the sidewalks around the central square instead of running through the middle. The knee-high boots she’s wearing tonight have thick, chunky heels, and they’re up to the challenge of a little extra walking, though the balls of her feet may not be.

The lanky blonde doorman outside The Alley sits up straight on his stool when he sees her coming, then stands. He doesn’t ask her for ID, though—of course, he’d have to recognize Tori, working here—but opens the door ahead of her instead.

If Podium was dead, then The Alley is beginning to stink. There are three young women perched at a round table near the stage, textbooks spread out all around them, fueling a study session on cheap beer from a pitcher at the table’s center. One of them looks up when Tori walks in and does a double-take, but then quickly turns back to her books. A couple of men are seated at the furthest end of the bar, each on his own with three stools between himself and the next person. One is engaging heavily with his phone, and the other appears to be focused exclusively on a glass of something brown.

Tori’s press-on nails have barely tapped the steel counter when the bartender appears—Saki’s friend. Tori should perhaps learn his name.

“Well, hello,” the bartender greets her brightly. “Fancy seeing you here again. Can I get you anything?”

“Is Saki on tonight?”

The boy’s eyes blow wide, and he bounces a little on his toes. Tori never expected that smile could get any bigger than it already was. “Yes!” His voice rises an octave, and then he seems to gather himself a little and settles back onto his feet. “I mean, yeah, absolutely. She’ll be on in, oh, fifteen minutes or so? Oh, man. She’ll be so surprised to see you.”

He’s bouncing again.

“Okay,” Tori can’t help smiling at little. The bartender’s excitement is contagious. “What’s _your_ name, by the way?”

“Oh! I’m Phichit.” He sticks his hand out across the bar, and Tori squeezes his fingers, careful of her temporary claws.

“Phichit, can I get a vodka-cran while I wait?”

Phichit beams, already reaching for a clean glass. “Absolutely.”

As she waits, Tori leans against the edge of the bar and casts her gaze around the room. _God_ , this place seemed a lot larger when she was eighteen. Some of that is probably because the building has aged, but perspective certainly plays a role as well. She can almost feel the creaking boards of the stage beneath her feet, teetering on heels that she borrowed from another performer as she squinted out through the lights at a crowd that seemed impossibly huge.

Tori had been twenty-three when Stephane moved away, leaving behind an open timeslot at Podium, and she’d been over the moon when Yakov called her to audition. At the time, she could never imagine being so busy she couldn’t perform, much less losing her passion for it. Of course, it had once seemed she’d be on stage forever.

A lot of things seem never-ending at twenty-three.

The music is quiet enough that Tori can hear the slide of her drink across the steel counter as Phichit delivers it to her. “On the house,” he promises when she reaches for the little coin purse tucked into her garter. It’s a nice gesture, but foolish, considering how empty the place is. She gives him a smile and a nod, but also makes a mental note to tip well when his back is turned. 

“So…” Phichit leans on the bar beside her as she takes the first sip of her drink. “God. Saki will literally flip when she finds out you came to see her. It was the routine she did at Podium, right? Spoiler alert—I talked her into finally trying it for realsies.”

“Really?” That’s promising. The first time Tori had seen her, Saki certainly hadn’t been anything like the creature that stole the spotlight at Podium last weekend. Maybe she needed a new program to work from. 

“Is tonight the debut?” Tori looks pointedly around the empty bar. One more hipster boy in red flannel has filtered in, sitting at the back of the room with a plastic cup for water and X’s on his hands. “Too bad about the finals week crowd.”

“Nah, we did that on purpose.”

That’s odd, and it gives Tori pause. Usually, when trying out a new trick, Tori hopes for a vibrant and supportive crowd. A lackluster response from a small group would only make her more conscious of any mistakes. It seems like a bad choice, but when she turns to mention it, Phichit is halfway across the room, dusting off the connections on The Alley’s host microphone.

The volume of the music pumping out the speakers amps up gradually, and Tori winces. She didn’t realize how spoiled she’d gotten, working somewhere with a DJ on staff. Going back to the iTunes shuffle system that The Alley operates under is almost painful.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and other,” Phichit calls out, leaning in close to the microphone. The audio system squeals, forcing him to back away until the screeching stops. “Please give a warm welcome to our first performer tonight—the delicious Saki Bomb!”

There’s a too-long silence as Phichit is forced to turn off the microphone and switch hands in order to cue up the song from an enormous playlist. The song starts off quietly, and there’s an audible click on the speakers as he switches up the volume on the computer, and then Saki swishes out onto the stage.

Tori’s first thought is, _at least this time her dress fits _. Her second thought is, _What’s wrong?___

__Saki steps up to the mic stand with a twitch to her hips that’s almost a swagger. Her costume for the night features a molded white corset top and a flowing asymmetrical skirt that swirls behind her on the stage like a peacock’s tail. She wraps her hand around the microphone, then stops—frozen._ _

__It’s only a moment, but it’s enough for Tori to notice. It throws Saki off the beat, and as she lifts the mic from its stand, she rushes to catch up with the song and find her place in the routine._ _

__The Alley doesn’t have a pole, and the stage is less than half the size of Podium’s. It shows in Saki’s shortened, abortive movements as she tries to give the same performance under such limiting conditions. She spins on her toes, flings an arm out toward the audience, and- stumbles._ _

__Tori winces. She can feel Phichit lingering near her still, just on the other side of the bar, and realizes she’s tapping her acrylics on the counter. It’s _frustrating_ , watching Saki now. She’s seen what the girl can do—with this exact same performance, no less!—and the sad show playing out before her tonight is nowhere near the caliber Tori knows that Saki is capable of. _ _

__There’s a ghost that’s been lurking around the edges of her life ever since Tori first saw Saki on stage; a vague idea that she keeps pushing down, trying to pave it over with paperwork and Makkachin and other everyday tasks. Watching Saki stumble through a poor imitation of the dance work she did at Podium, the ghost solidifies, and it punches Tori squarely in the chest._ _

__Her mind immediately circles to _plans_. Soon, she’s preoccupied with the concept, buried deep in her own thoughts. She doesn’t even notice the song drawing to an end until Phichit is tugging on her sleeve to get her attention. Tori blinks. There’s a new performer on stage._ _

__Phichit pulls at her top again, and Tori turns. “What did you think?” Phichit prompts, with a sly grin. “Not quite the same without the pole, but I’ve been telling Celeste we should-”_ _

__“Where’s Saki?” Tori cuts her off, planting both hands on the bar. “I need to talk to her.”_ _

__Wordlessly, Phichit raises a finger, indicating across the club to a dark alcove beside the stage, where Tori can now see Saki lingering, watching the other dancer perform. Tori slides her empty glass to Phichit and strides off across the room._ _

__She can’t help announcing herself with the most pressing question: “What happened up there?”_ _

__Saki turns to face her, and her eyes widen. “It _is_ you,” she says, just audible over the pop music blaring from the nearby speaker. “I mean, I thought I saw you, but I forgot my contacts. I thought-” She shakes her head, interrupting herself. “My heel caught in a gap between the boards on my turn,” she says._ _

__It takes Tori a moment to realize she’s referring to her big, noticeable stumble. “No, not that,” Tori sighs, folding her arms across her chest. “I mean the whole thing! You were _twice_ as good at Podium last week on the same routine. I know your resources here are limited, but that was like watching a different performer!”_ _

__Saki’s mouth drops open. There’s a bit of her dark red lipstick smeared across her bottom teeth. “I- I was drunk!” She stammers. A flush climbs the back of her neck, where her pale foundation has gone spotty and sweat-streaked. “I barely even remember-. If Phichit hadn’t taken _photos_ -.”_ _

__“Ohhh, does he have an Instagram?” Tori cranes her neck back to check if Phichit is still at the bar. “I need to see those.”_ _

__“No!” Saki’s loud protest falls right in the silence between songs. The few patrons in the club all turn to see what the fuss is about. Saki looks away from Tori, burying her fingers in the ruffles above her rounded thighs and pulling._ _

__Her voice is hushed but firm when she speaks again. “Did you just come over tonight to tell me how shitty I am?”_ _

__“What? No!” Tori raises her hands, realizing she’s stepped in it already. _God._ Usually it takes her more than three minutes before she screws this stuff up. “You weren’t shitty the other night. I mean, you weren’t that shitty tonight either!”_ _

__With a sigh, Tori lets her arms fall to her sides. Saki is at least looking at her now, but it’s out the corner of her eye, the twist of her mouth laced with suspicion._ _

__“I think you have a lot of promise,” Tori starts again, from the beginning, trying to keep her voice level and patient. “You have a wonderful talent, and so much beauty in the way you move. With a little polish, you could outshine any rhinestone on that dress, and I want to help.”_ _

__Saki is blushing again now, her deep brown eyes dancing as Tori reaches out, taking one of Saki’s hands between her own. “Saki,” she continues, holding that hand tight as their eyes collide. “From this day on, I’ll be your drag mother.”_ _

__-_ _

__Yuri’s lost count of the damn weeks at this point. Worse, his savings jar is getting low, and he won’t be able to afford another bus pass until he finds some type of paying gig to fill the gaps. He hadn’t planned on these trips being so expensive, but all the coffees, sodas, and pizza slices he’s been buying to lurk downtown add up to more than he’d expected._ _

__He could ask his grandfather for money, but doing that for something he doesn’t _need_ always makes Yuri feel strangely nauseous—especially since Grandad already spends too much on him. No, that isn’t an option, but all this wasted time is wearing his patience down to nothing._ _

__Watching the other young people wander in and out of Podium, smiling and laughing as they cling to each other, makes Yuri tense and green with envy. That _should_ be him. He deserves this—this one thing, going right for once. But he’s running low on ideas for how to make it happen._ _

__The fake ID had been an expensive mistake. Mixing with a group worked the first time, but then Tori had caught him and tossed him out on his ass without so much as a pause. The second time he’d tried it, the goddamn bouncer had caught him with his toes on the threshold. _JJ_. Smug jerk. _ _

__Once, Yuri had even tried going down to the back of this alley by the club and sneaking in the back door. As it turns out, fiddling with the back door from the outside without a key sets off some type of security alarm. Yuri had fled the scene with his hands clasped tight to his ears, and thankfully he didn’t get caught. He’d probably never get inside if they knew that was him. He’d turn up on his eighteenth birthday and find a photo of himself above the bar, stamped with the words _Do Not Admit_._ _

__Tonight, he’s back to an old classic—lurking in the alley, feet away from the promised land, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s going to do now._ _

__Stealth hasn’t been doing him any good, and the entrance is so close tonight that Yuri can literally smell it. The door is propped open, JJ perched on a stool beside it, and when the wind turns just right Yuri catches that same whiff of sour-sweet-salty perfume he noticed on his brief journey inside._ _

___Ah, fuck this_ , he thinks, watching a pair of young professionals saunter through the doorway in ill-fitting suits. He’s over this waiting and sneaking around bullshit. Yuri straightens away from the corner and zips his hoodie to the throat, then pops the hood up—not that it made a difference the last time. He gathers himself for a single breath, clenching his fists at his side._ _

__He dashes around the corner like there’s a lion on his heels and flings himself at the door with all the force he can manage, wedging himself between the others trying to get inside. His foot makes it through the doorway—and then he hits the end of his tether, pushing up hard against the zip on his jacket. His hood falls back as JJ pulls him back outside by the loose cloth at the back of his sweatshirt._ _

__“ _Again_ , Princess?” JJ chuckles, holding Yuri at arm’s length. His eyes are covered by a pair of little round sunglasses, like a douchey Harry Potter look, but they don’t hide his smug smile. He shakes his head as Yuri throws himself back, trying to scramble free. “You know even rats learn to change their behavior after they get shocked three times, right?”_ _

__Yuri twists, then drops. If he can’t get free with it, maybe he can slip out of the hoodie. He gets his face under the neckline and tries to pull his arms out of the sleeves._ _

__“Hang on.” Another voice, more level and deeper than JJ’s. Yuri freezes in the darkness of his jacket. He’s not sure who’s talking, or who they’re speaking to. “He’s with me.”_ _

__The tension on Yuri’s clothes disappears, and he catches himself, staggering before he can fall as the grip holding him up goes slack. He pops his head out of his jacket again, looking around wildly._ _

__“Really?” JJ drawls. “ _Really?_ ”_ _

__The guy standing next to him shrugs. His black leather jacket makes his shoulders look broader than they likely are, though he does have a stocky build. He’s short enough that his head is even with JJ’s even though the bouncer is still sitting on a barstool. He’s also got the same black hair and the same tight undercut, and Yuri might have thought the two were related if the cast of their features wasn’t so different._ _

__Still, the similarity between them makes him wary. Yuri doesn’t remember seeing the guy around before._ _

__“Take this,” the stranger says, and shoves a heavy briefcase-style box into Yuri’s hands. When Yuri only stares, he adds, “Help me bring it in.”_ _

__Without further explanation, he turns and walks into the club._ _

__JJ’s lips are pursed as he holds out a hand. “ _Fine_ ,” he sighs. “Give me your hands, Princess.”_ _

__Yuri clutches the box tight to his chest. “What? No. Fuck off, perv.”_ _

__Rolling his eyes, JJ uncaps the thick black marker in his hand and reaches out, scrawling fat, acrid-smelling X’s on each of Yuri’s hands and pressing the felt tip so hard into Yuri’s skin that it feels like he’s been tattooed. Once the marks are completed, JJ goes over them again for good measure._ _

__He caps the pen with a firm click, then lowers his sunglasses to meet Yuri’s gaze over the frames. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you in there,” he says._ _

__Yuri’s not sure if that’s meant as an assurance or a threat, but, holding the briefcase in front of him like a shield, he takes his first tentative steps inside._ _

__It’s still daylight out, and even with lights on by the bar, the club is dim compared to the sun-streaked sidewalks. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust._ _

__Podium is mostly empty at the moment—the guys in suits he saw before are propped up at the bar, and there are a couple groups of girls in short dresses and battered jeans stretched out at the tables, but otherwise it’s quiet. Behind the bar, a solitary bartender with a serious resting bitch face has the till propped open, counting his change._ _

__Scanning the space, Yuri finally spots the guy from the door in a back corner of the bar, bent double over the DJ booth to adjust some wires. When he spies Yuri still lurking in the doorway, he jerks his head, summoning him over._ _

__The case in his arms is getting heavy. Yuri has no idea who this guy is or what he’s doing, but he _does_ know he’ll look like a moron if he keeps standing here with an armful of someone else’s equipment. He shuffles over to the booth and sets the box down on the floor beside the stranger._ _

__“Thanks for your help, I guess,” Yuri says. He squares his shoulders, rising to his full height. He’s still about an inch shorter than the other guy. “But I’m not going to give you anything for it, so if you think that, then you can fuck right off.”_ _

__The man finishes plugging in some of the equipment and turns back to Yuri, sticking out his hand. “I’m Otabek,” he offers. Yuri eyes his hand warily, and Otabek sighs. “You want to stay in here, or not? You can go if you’re uncomfortable.”_ _

__Reluctantly, Yuri shakes his hand. Otabek’s grip is firm, while Yuri keeps his own hand limp. He should probably have come up with a fake name, but he didn’t think that far ahead. He gives the real one instead._ _

__Otabek motions for Yuri to follow him behind the DJ booth, then points to one of the two stools in back before kneeling on the floor, continuing to fix connections on the equipment. “I don’t expect anything,” he says, head down as he works. “Don’t try to wash those X’s off and drink. Don’t wander too far away from the booth. I stuck my neck out getting you in here, so don’t ruin it if you want to come back.”_ _

__“I didn’t ask for any favors,” Yuri grumbles, and Otabek looks back over his shoulder._ _

__“Do you want to be friends, or what?”_ _

___Friends_. It’s part of why Yuri wanted inside, isn’t it? He shouldn’t complain it happened faster than he expected. He doesn’t give Otabek an answer, but steps back and settles in, perching on one of the stools in the booth. _ _

__With a nod, Otabek turns back to his equipment, and Yuri folds his hands between his knees, watching his strange new friend work._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find previews of upcoming chapters and/or scream at me in these locations:
> 
> [Tumblr](http://louciferish.tumblr.com/)//[Twitter](https://twitter.com/louciferish)//[Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/louciferish)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently in Amsterdam on my belated honeymoon, but... fuck it. Here we go anyway.
> 
> Heads up that this chapter contains some (relatively mild) homophobic language, not directed at (or spoken by) the main characters.

It’s the hour before The Alley opens for the night that really makes the place feel like more than a bar to Yuuri. There are no customers, no flashing lights or wall-shaking pop music. The fluorescent bulbs overhead are bright as late afternoon sun finds a path through the worn spots in the window tinting, and the only sound is the quiet scrape of broom bristles on the concrete as Emil sweeps up.

Phichit is behind the bar already, counting out the register to get ready for the evening, and Yuuri perches on one of the stools, swinging himself gently from side to side with little pushes of his toes against the bar. Emil shoves the broom against the bottom of Yuuri’s stool, shaking it on uneven legs.

“If you’ve got so much energy, maybe you should be the one sweeping,” Emil teases, offering Yuuri the wooden handle. As always, he’s dressed in a crisp white button-down, looking more like a caterer than a doorman. Yuuri still doesn’t know him that well, though he’s been working at The Alley for the past semester, ever since their last bouncer graduated in December.

“Don’t mind him,” Phichit says. There’s a mischievous look in his eye as he glances back at them over his shoulder. “Yuuri’s just nervous about his _mommy_ coming over today.”

Before Yuuri can calculate a properly scathing retort to that, Emil perks up beside him, looking like a golden retriever that’s just sighted a tennis ball. “Yuuri! Your mother is coming over?” His smile falters briefly, and his eyes dart over to the prominent rainbow flag over the bar, then the huge plastic banner advertising _Grindr_ on the far wall. “Is this…good?” He asks hesitantly.

Behind the bar, Phichit coughs. Yuuri glares at the spot between his shoulder blades. He thinks this is _funny_.

“It’s not my actual mother,” Yuuri explains. At only twenty-three, he’s already getting tired of having to educate newbies. He spares a brief moment of sympathy for the older queens who had to deal with his own mountain of questions a few years ago. “Tori Adore, from Podium? She’s coming over this evening because she’s volunteered to be my _drag_ mother.” Emil’s expression is friendly and bright, but blank of understanding. “It’s like a mentoring thing. More experienced queens take new girls under their wing to give tips and coaching on style and performance.”

Emil nods, then pauses and shakes his head instead. “But…haven’t you been doing this a while?”

Yuuri cringes.

Luckily, Phichit jumps in. “Saki never had a drag mother to start with, not in the one-on-one sense. She may seem experienced to you, but Tori’s been doing this more than twice as long as we have.”

Relieved, Yuuri lets Phichit take over the lesson from there. Left to himself, he honestly isn’t sure how he’d explain his own origin story to a stranger, especially not one so new to this that he doesn’t even know what a drag mother is yet.

Then again, Yuuri’s actual mother would _love_ to be here for a show. When he told her about his job at The Alley, she’d been absolutely thrilled. Given that Yuuri’s older sister was never much for shopping trips or other typically “girly” things, Hiroko Katsuki was happy to embrace her son’s new interest, and she often emails him links to stores and outfits she thinks would suit Saki.

It’s too far to travel, so thankfully Yuuri never has to worry that she’ll actually show up in the crowd here. He loves her. He appreciates his family’s attitude on this. But he’d still be mortified if his parents ever set foot inside the dingy, sticky-floored mess that is The Alley. 

“Yuuri’s mother would probably love to visit,” Phichit says, because they’ve been living together long enough their brain waves sometimes sync in frightening ways. “Oh my god. Mama Katsuki is so cute. She would adopt like, everyone.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, but it’s probably true. Given the chance, his mother would probably show up to The Alley with enough food to satisfy the city’s entire queer community.

Emil, normally exuberant, is still smiling, but it’s strained around the edges. “It’s great that your family supports you so much,” he says quietly. There’s a story there. There always is. Yuuri doesn’t have the mental fortitude to ask about it right now, but maybe someday he will.

He knows exactly how lucky he is, though. He’d never worried about coming out as gay to his parents—not with _Minako_ being practically family already—and they’d known about his sexuality almost as soon as Yuuri had. Telling them about Saki, on the other hand, had tied his stomach in knots for days.

Yuuri doesn’t know many other drag queens, but he suspects talking with one’s parents about drag shows is not the norm. But Yuuri had _needed_ his parents to know. For one thing, he wanted them to understand that he had an income and that they no longer needed to worry about sending him food money—though that never entirely stopped. Even more than that, though, he needed them to know about Saki because he needs them to know _him_. Saki isn’t just a wig Yuuri puts on a couple nights each week and he can throw away at will. She’s part of him. Anyone who doesn’t know about Saki doesn’t really know Yuuri at all.

It’s important. It also means it’s incredibly difficult for Yuuri to make friends—first at school, and now at work as well.

That reminds him—he’s still waiting for the plaintiff’s discovery to arrive from his case with Victor. He slips his phone from the back pocket of his jeans to check his email and spots the time.

It’s already 4:40. 

“Shit,” Yuuri says, dropping his phone on the bar as he hops off the stool. “Tori’s going to be here soon. I have to get changed.”

Phichit leans over the bar, waggling his eyebrows. “Why the rush, Cinderella? Don’t you want _godmother_ to help you get ready for the ball?”

Yuuri doesn’t dignify the comment with a reply beyond rolling his eyes as he grabs his bag from behind the bar and trots off to the back room to get dressed. Saki’s not just any part of Yuuri, after all— she’s the best parts, and that’s what Tori is here to see. The thought that she might someday see the anxious mass of human jello _beneath_ the makeup? That’s the kind of thing Yuuri has nightmares about.

-

Tori can’t see a damn thing over the pile of sequins and feathers tumbling out of the overstuffed box in her arms. She shouldn’t have filled it quite so high, but then she was working with very limited space available. Her convertible is _cute_ , but it’s not exactly a three-body trunk, and she doesn’t want to make multiple trips to get all this junk inside either. 

The door to The Alley is still closed when she arrives, and she paws for the handle, wrinkling her nose at the feeling of rough wood and old paint beneath her fingertips. She’d better not get a splinter from this.

At last, she finds the rust-dotted curve of the handle and, balancing the cardboard box on one knee, manages to heave the door open. 

“A little help?” Tori calls out as she stumbles inside. There’s no reply, but after a minute she feels a second set of arms come up beside hers. Phichit hoists the box out of her grip, depositing it onto the nearest table.

“Ooooh,” he says, rubbing his hands together as he observes the new treasures. “Did you come bearing gifts?”

“More like loans. Is Saki here yet?”

“I’m here.” Tori looks up from the pile on the table to see Saki coming out from behind the stage. She’s wearing a loose, satiny dress that almost passes as a nightgown, with a kimono-style jacket draped over, the lavender sleeves flowing with the movement of her arms. 

It’s a good look for her, and Tori pauses for a moment to take it in. Most of the drag queens she’s worked with would shy away from anything so _casually_ feminine, but Saki looks more comfortable in this than she ever has on stage.

Now, if only her wig and padding were better, she might actually sell it.

With that, Tori starts digging into the box with gusto. “Great,” she announces. “I’ve come to fix you. Or—not ‘fix’—upgrade? We’re doing upgrades today, like detailing a car.”

“Pimp My Friend?” Phichit suggests. Saki grabs a scarf from the table and lobs it at his face. It flutters harmlessly toward the floor until Phichit snatches it up, swirling the red and gold lace around his waist.

Tori continues to pull out wigs, dresses, makeup cases, and lingerie. Saki’s eyes get wider at each new addition, her attention flashing from one item to the next. 

“Are these—Are these supposed to be for me?” Saki fists her kimono together in the front, clutching it closed. “But these are-” Her mouth drops open as Tori lifts another satiny gown from the box. 

Before it can touch the table, Saki has it her arms, pulling it away from Tori to hold tight against her body. “This is the _Fever_ dress,” she murmurs, eyes shining with awed reverence. 

Tori tilts her head. She can’t tell much from the bundle of dark sateen gathering wrinkles in Saki’s arms, and she’s certain the gown she’d used for “Fever” had rhinestones on it, but there’s a flash of red lining as Saki clutches the dress tighter. 

“Oh,” Tori says, smiling. “So it is.” There’s an unexpected stabbing in her chest as she realizes that Saki may know her past work even better than Tori does herself, but then, she’s supposed to be Saki’s mentor now. It’s probably for the best that Saki looks up to her so much. 

Leaving the gown alone for now, Tori rummages for the last few small items at the bottom of the box. “These things are all past for me now,” she says. “Or in some cases, duplicates of stuff I already have—old costumes, wigs in shades I favored when I first started out. Most of this stuff I wore, oh, ten years ago, before the last gasp of puberty wrecked my gorgeous figure.” She favors Saki with an exaggerated pout, but the other queen is still too preoccupied with the new treats spilling out across the table. She’s barely even glanced Tori’s way since that stupid gown came out.

Tori squashes the hot squeeze in her throat. Getting jealous of a dress would be a new low, for sure, but she can’t help wishing someone—anyone—would look at her with half the reverence Saki is showing that slip of fabric.

“You want something, it’s yours,” Tori says, then nods to the dress when Saki’s head snaps up. “Yes, that one included. Like I said, doesn’t even fit me anymore.” She shrugs, nonchalant, and turns back to the table. She can still remember the way her long hair had fallen into her eyes as she stooped over the kitchen table and carefully placed each gem to customize the gown, the fabric glue sticky on her fingertips.

“Here!” Tori grabs a tube of liquid eyeliner and a dark lipstick, tucking them under one arm, then picks up a makeup wipe before advancing. Saki freezes when Tori’s fingers find her chin, tilting her head up to catch what little light the dingy old club provides. “I want to try something.”

Up close, Saki really is stunning, down to her bone structure. Most of the queens Tori knows do their makeup big and brassy, pops of attention that will catch an audience even under a bright spotlight and half a mile away. When you get too close, the illusion breaks.

Saki isn’t like that at all. There’s a quiet sort of beauty to her. It doesn’t always work to her advantage on stage, but now that they are only inches apart, Tori is mesmerized by the way Saki’s navy blue eyeliner brings out the flecks of bright amber around her irises. 

She also can’t miss the way Saki’s gaze drops, lingering on the shine of Tori’s mouth just a bit too openly. _Bold._ Then she spots the face wipe in Tori’s hand, and she jerks away.

“What do you think, guys? Is this my look?” Phichit’s bright voice calls out. He’s perched on top of one of the rickety club chairs in a tree pose, and on his head is a black bob wig streaked with chunks of red tinsel.

 _Whoops._ Tori forgot he was here. 

“I don’t think you’re ready to give up bartending for the stage,” Saki says. Phichit sticks his tongue out at her.

When Tori turns with wipe raised once more, she finds that Saki’s stepped back, her hands up in front of her chest as if warding off a drunk’s advances. “Ah- Can we talk about this, before you start?” Saki interrupts herself, finishing the sentence with a gesture to the piles on the table. “I don’t- I appreciate your help, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to change my whole look.” 

Of course. Tori hadn’t really thought about it, but it must be a bit much, coming at her all at once this way. Mentally, she takes a step back. 

“Okay,” Tori says, putting the makeup removers away. “Aside from the Fever dress, why don’t you take a look through what I brought over, and then we can talk about what _you_ like.” She winks, putting on a bit of a show still. “We’ll leave the slumber parties and dress up games for later.”

Saki’s smile is a bit weak, but it’s there, and she reaches out slowly, running her fingers over a piece of silver tulle protruding from the top of the box. “Nothing too fluffy,” she says. “I like tailored things.”

There’s a snarky remark on the tip of Tori’s tongue about the lack of tailoring in what Saki owns so far, but she’s already learning that would not be constructive here. Tori leans back on a table instead to watch Saki take the lead.

Phichit retreats back behind the bar to finish preparing to open, and soon there’s quiet background music filtering through the speakers around them, a soundtrack to Saki’s ongoing treasure hunt. Her hands are gentle as she sorts through the box, treating Tori’s discarded leotards and cheap wigs like precious gifts, though they’re essentially just hand-me-downs. 

As she watches Saki, Tori notices what she thinks, at first, are little furtive movements of her feet and hips, aborted almost as soon as they begin. As it continues, however, Tori begins to pick up a pattern: Saki is moving to the music. Unconsciously, she still reacts to the quiet indie pop Phichit’s put on, and the further she digs into the box of costumes, the more distracted she gets, the more she involved in the melody she becomes. Soon, her hips are swaying back and forth to the beat, and her lips are mouthing the words.

Once again, her musicality strikes Tori. Saki doesn’t dance like a twink in a club mimicking Beyonce videos. She moves with an instinct born of _practice_ , and Tori has to ask: “What type of dance do you take?”

Saki drops the red sequin top in her hands, and it slinks through her fingers to rest back in the box. “What?” Her movement stops, and she straightens, stiff.

“I noticed it the first time I saw you,” Tori says. She folds her arms, tapping a finger on the point of her chin in consideration. “Your dancing is beautiful. When you’re on, there’s a very musical quality to your motions that I don’t usually see. You’ve obviously taken some sort of lessons— what are they? How many years do you have? Was dance your major?”

Saki’s eyes drop, for a moment zooming in on Tori’s finger. She drops her hand from her chin, taking away the distracting movement, and Saki blinks as if waking up. “Ballet,” she says suddenly. “Since I was a kid, and now yoga, but it’s not- I was never serious about it.”

“That’s a shame.” Saki looks almost struck by those words, so Tori elaborates. “What I’ve seen is very good. I’d love to see more of it.” She lets her lips curve up in a smirk, remembering. “Did you learn to climb the pole in ballet, or was that yoga?”

Saki flushes red to the tips of her ears. Across the bar, Phichit cackles, calling out, “Oh boy. She’s got your number now.”

“That stuff is-,” Saki pauses, not looking at Tori. “I mean, it’s not something I do on _stage_.”

“You did at Podium,” Tori says, eyeing the layout of The Alley speculatively. “It may not have been a planned performance, but you were certainly on stage. It wouldn’t be too difficult to install something here, and then you could incorporate that in your performances as well.”

Saki mumbles something inaudible, and Tori has to nudge her to speak up. Finally, she says, “I’m not sexy in that way.”

Tori bites her lip, restraining a very unhelpful laugh. She won’t be forgetting the picture Saki made at Podium any time soon. Saki’s sex appeal was something beyond the artifice of hair and makeup—beautiful and natural, like so much about her. All she needed was a little help, some _oomph_ to get others to notice what Tori already had.

“I think you can get there,” Tori says. She hops up onto the table beside the box of costumes, pushing boas and lingerie out of her path. Legs crossed, she folds her hands on her knee to listen. “Something is holding you back. Do you not have confidence in your ability on stage?”

Saki snorts, then covers her mouth. Her eyes flick across the room toward Phichit, as if entreating him to answer for her. Tori can’t see what response she gets, but whatever it is, it’s nonverbal. 

“I struggle with confidence in everything,” Saki confesses, ducking her head so her synthetic hair falls to cover her face. “Even in my dance classes. My instructors have always been lenient, letting me practice alone outside class hours.” She pauses to shrug. “It’s easier if I’m alone.”

A couple things slot into place with this admission, but most of all, the strange way Saki and Phichit had arranged to debut her new routine on a slow night, rather than throwing a big soiree. In many ways, Saki is a natural performer, yet she struggles with crowds. It’s a complicated equation. Tori rolls it over in the back of her mind for a moment before noticing that Saki is still watching her, her fingers absently stroking the “Fever” dress where it’s draped across the back of a chair.

Tori will need more time to solve Saki’s problem, but at least they can get a temporary fix. Until you can make it on your own, there’s always clothes and make-up to help you fake it. That’s part of the whole secret of drag. 

She nods to the dress. “Do you want to try that on? It may need some adjustments before you can wear it on stage, but we can mark those now.”

“Really? You mean, I can really-?” Saki picks the gown up again, folding it close to her heart. 

“Really,” Tori says, for the third time. She’d be more irritated at having to repeat herself if Saki weren’t so visibly thrilled. She’s holding onto that dress like a lifeline, and hell—if she’s going to think that way, Tori might as well encourage it. Dumbo may not have needed his magic feather to fly, but it helped him get off the ground.

Trying her best to seem encouraging, Tori gives Saki’s shoulder a gentle push. “It’s been a while since I worked here, but I doubt you’ve moved the ‘dressing room’,” she says, forming the quotes with her fingers as she nudges the other girl forward.

“Nope,” Saki sighs. “Still not a real dressing room.” 

Although Tori knows where she’s going, she lets Saki take the lead to the back room, then into the Alley’s shady excuse for a dressing area. Tori eyes the space with her hands on her hips—water-stained cardboard boxes, a pink paisley chair with ripped upholstery, and the world’s creepiest armless mannequin stare back at her. Nothing has changed.

“I’m just going to…” Saki nods toward a corner of the room cordoned off by an old shower curtain. Just the sight of the faded green plaid fabric gives Tori déjà vu—a flashback to wrapping herself in that curtain, draped like a Roman goddess, as Chris swarmed around, taking photos with a cheap disposable camera.

She’s pretty sure she still has the pictures somewhere, though they came out blurry and littered with orbs from the dust in the room. “Be my guest,” she tells Saki, and watches her disappear behind the curtain. 

As soon as Saki vanishes, Tori feels a weight lift. _What is she doing?_ She’s never mentored anyone before, and Saki needs more than a flat iron and a pair of Jimmy Choos to whip her into shape. Tori isn’t qualified to be helping anyone with _real_ problems.

But, she’s here. She’s hip-deep now, and Saki is counting on her. There’s nothing else to do but start swimming and hope they don’t both drown. 

A flash of blue catches her eye, and she recognizes the ugly-ass dress Saki had been wearing the first time Tori saw her perform hanging on a nearby rack of costumes. Her lips twitch, and then a slow smile spreads over her face. While Saki’s getting changed, Tori may as well take some time getting to know the rest of her wardrobe. She mentally rolls up the sleeves she’s not wearing and dives in.

In mere minutes, the dressing room closet looks like a tornado swept through it. _Hurricane Tori_ has left devastation in her wake—devastation, and three piles of outfits, ranging in usability from “needs alterations” to “needs to be recycled to bar rags for mopping up vomit.” There’s a pair of gold sequin briefs stretched between her hands that she’s _pretty sure_ Chris abandoned here years ago after a very ill-advised hookup in the paisley chair, when her thought train is derailed by a delicate, polite cough.

“It’s—uh—it’s on,” Saki says. “But I think the zipper’s stuck.”

Tori drops the gold underwear and turns to face the curtain. “Let me see.” 

With a whoosh, Saki rolls the curtain back. Tori squeezes the back of the disgusting chair for emotional support. 

It’s been many years since the black gown fit Tori with half the appeal it has on Saki’s body. Her padding still needs work at the chest and hips, but when she turns to display the problematic zipper, Tori is suddenly very grateful the chair is still around to hold her up. 

She has a sneaking suspicion Saki isn’t even wearing padding in the back. Tori knows a natural _asset_ when she sees it—how did she not notice that before? Hang the dancing and the lip sync lessons; Chris ought to hire the girl at Podium for this reason alone.

The slinky black fabric clings to Saki’s butt, while the slit up the side perfectly frames the muscled thigh and calf of a lifelong dancer. Somehow, the lowered zipper makes it even sexier; the parted fabric dips to Saki’s lower back, showing the dress’s red lining at the edges. It gives the appearance that Saki herself has been unzipped, baring her insides to the world.

Saki glances back over her shoulder, and Tori remembers she’s meant to be _doing something_. She steps up behind Saki and feels her jump a little when Tori’s hands settle on her waist. 

Thankfully, the zipper isn’t broken. The tab is only lost between the folds of cloth. Tori uses her fake nails to pull it free, then places one palm flat against Saki’s tailbone to hold the fabric still. The temptation to slide that hand lower is _tangiblel_ , but Saki’s muscles are tense beneath her hand, and Tori gathers her wits back together. She’s supposed to be mentoring.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says in a hushed voice, as the zipper begins its slow ascent. “About your little problem on stage—” with each inch she pulls, the teeth close on one another, hiding another inch of that soft-looking, bare skin. 

“From now on, I don’t want you to think about the audience. Focus on the music, or the lyrics and their meaning. For the people…” the zipper hangs on a snag and Tori pauses, pulling it back down before starting again, up to the base of Saki’s shoulder blades. “I don’t want you to think of all the faces, but only one. Imagine there’s only one person you want to please… like your lover.”

The zipper reaches the top of its climb, and Tori fastens the little hook and eye to hold it in place. She pulls her hands away and steps back, the lingering warmth of Saki’s back like a phantom on her skin.

When Saki turns to face her, her cheeks are flushed pink beneath her foundation, but she meets Tori’s eyes directly with banked embers in her gaze. She cocks her hip and crosses her arms, and the movement makes the gems on her chest wink in the light. 

“How does it look?” she asks, as if she doesn’t know. 

“Smouldering,” Tori says. A familiar voice sings in her head, _What a lovely way to burn._

-

By Monday, going back to the office somehow feels like a relief. Yuuri’s weekend had stretched out until it felt like five days instead of two, crammed as it was with all the new pressure of Tori’s attention. Yuuri’s still very grateful—if a little overwhelmed—but it has really increased the stress levels of what was once a relaxing hobby for him.

To let off steam, he stayed up too late on Sunday night, hip deep in Final Fantasy until past midnight, before weariness knocked him over and he finally crawled into bed. 

When he arrives at the firm, Yuuri is bleary-eyed and in need of more coffee, but his socks match. At least here no one is going to tell him he doesn’t know how to dress himself. He finds his way to the kitchen and takes an extra moment to dig in the back of the cupboard for a dark blue mug bearing the logo of some long-disbanded startup, because the dark mugs are the only ones without years of visible coffee stains. It makes him feel a bit better about life.

Back at his desk, he finds a bright pink post-it note stuck to the top of his monitor. _SEE ROYCE,_ it says. Yuuri’s starting to suspect the office manager is a mutant, and his super power is catching people on breaks. He sets his lukewarm coffee on the corner of his mousepad, snags the post-it, and goes to SEE ROYCE.

Royce is not at the front desk, but beside it, attaching a rainbow of post-it notes to a stack of boxes and packages he’s just taken in. His head snaps up when Yuuri approaches, as if he can hear even the softest shuffle of dress shoes on carpet. 

“Yuuri,” he says, dropping the name like a crumpled candy wrapper onto the ground. “I was looking for you earlier. Your discovery has arrived. Do you want it, or should I take it straight to Victor?” 

After the treasure hunt they had with the last box, Yuuri doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll take it,” he says. 

In reply, Royce taps a box in the stack beside him. Of course, it’s on the bottom.

Yuuri carefully rearranges the stack in order to reach the RBS files and then, feeling Royce’s watchful eyes on the back of his neck, he places all the other boxes back exactly where he found them. Only after it’s all in order does he heft his box into his arms and tote it back to the intern pen.

Shoving his keyboard and mouse out of the way, he drops the box on top of his desk and pries off the lid. As he peers inside, Yuuri lets out a breath of relief. The binders within are organized in a neat row, each spine facing upward where he can easily read the labels, and they appear to be ordered by both document type and chronological date.

Yuuri pauses briefly to thank whatever supernatural entity saw to it that the opposition firm, at least, knows how to file discovery in a sensible manner. He lifts the box again, transferring it to an empty table nearby and removes the first hefty binder of contracts. Opening to the index, he stops. It’s Victor’s case. He should probably update the attorney on anything new before digging in, in case Victor needs something in particular.

Clutching the plastic binder to his chest, Yuuri heads down the hall and around the corner to Victor’s office. The door is shut, so Yuuri leans forward on his toes, checking the little rectangular window to see if Victor is even inside—maybe he’s sick.

Through the slitted window, Yuuri can see Victor seated behind his heavy wooden desk. It’s littered with papers, as usual, but Victor isn’t in the middle of typing up a brief or scribbling out notes to himself in bright purple on the back of a torn envelope. He’s leaning forward, both elbows set on the desktop, head down and hands buried in the fall of silver hair.

Yuuri can’t see his expression.

He steps back quickly, before Victor can look up and catch him watching. Whatever is on Victor’s mind, it doesn’t seem like he’d want to be disturbed. 

Instead, Yuuri returns to the cubicle farm. His professors had always urged Yuuri to show more initiative. Maybe this would be a good time for it. The binders are already in good shape—Yuuri only needs to update his records and catalogue anything new that RBS hadn’t provided. He can handle it. He doesn’t need to bother Victor with this.

Pawing through the box, Yuuri finds a thumb drive taped to the front of one of the binders. Opposing counsel knows what they’re doing, that’s for sure. He won’t even need to scan this round of documents. He swings into his chair and plugs the drive in.

Everything seems to be in order. Even the digital files are carefully organized with names and dates, and Yuuri opens the first PDF and begins to scroll through. At first, it’s nothing interesting—the same type of banal office messages that he saw in the RBS file, but this time from the plaintiff. Every once in a while, there’s a familiar subject line as the two batches of discovery converge on company-wide emails.

One subject line catches his eye: **Today’s Lunch- Orders?**. Yuuri remembers this one, though the topic is innocuous. It was one of the oddballs in the RBS file—there had been multiple copies of a simple thread with people’s sandwich orders. In some cases, the copy was labeled “#78,” and at other times, “#52.” The only thing that even connects the thread to the case is the fact that the plaintiff was the one picking up the orders.

Yuuri is scrolling through it absently when a new line catches his attention:

_You sure Andy can handle carrying all this with those limp wrists?_

It hits Yuuri like an accidental shock from a socket, jolting from his fingertips and through his whole body. His hand freezes on the mouse as it sinks in. His first thought is, _how did the plaintiff even see this?_ , followed immediately by, _and why wasn’t it in our file?_ He scrolls back up quickly and checks the recipient addresses.

The asshole had hit reply all. He’d cleared the main line of addresses, but the :CC was intact— about two dozen people had been sent this toxic waste, and the plaintiff was one of them.

Yuuri minimizes the window and sits, collecting his thoughts for a second. The email was… shitty, to put it eloquently. It didn’t speak highly of the corporate culture at RBS, but it could just be one homophobic middle-manager. A single gross email wasn’t enough to build a discrimination case on. 

Back in the main zip drive, he spots a folder labeled “HR Complaints.” That’s the next logical link in the timeline. If someone made a comment like that about _Yuuri_ , Human Resources would be his first step. He clicks on the file.

Inside are two separate PDF complaints. The first was filed immediately after this email, and cites the comments in it. Under “Resolution” on the form, an HR person has written _Manager conversation_. Yuuri wrinkles his nose. Not ideal, but at least something was done. 

The second complaint is dated only two weeks later. In this one, the plaintiff has no evidence, but cites “derogatory comments” by the same individual. Resolution: _2 hours sensitivity training_. 

Again, it’s not great, but both complaints are against the same jerk from the email, and both times corrective action was taken. Yuuri leans back in his chair. It’s still not enough to prove unlawful termination.

The thought soothes his nerves a bit, but it also pings at his memory. There had been other messages in the RBS file which were duplicated and out of order, and Yuuri can sense a potential pattern forming. He swings his chair around and grabs one of the client folders for comparison, thumbing through the crisp white pages until he finds another oddball.

This particular email always struck him as odd. RBS had provided four copies, and three of them are identical. It’s a mass email, inviting all employees to join their colleagues and families for a company picnic and barbecue. It’s innocuous, common practice, and yet the fourth copy RBS sent contains an additional line: a response by the plaintiff reading, _This is bullshit._

It struck Yuuri as needlessly hostile when he first read it, but now he’s not so sure. He zips through the new file until he locates the same date, and the same company picnic announcement.

The first thing he notices is the subject line: **Re: FWD: 2016 Annual Employee Picnic**. At the top of the thread is the same message he saw before - family picnic, location, all that corporate cheerleading sort of stuff. Below that, however, is a reply from the plaintiff.

_Mariella,_

_Justin was kind enough to forward this over to me. Please update your distribution list so I won’t miss these!_

_Thanks,_

_Andy_

A few minutes later, there’s a reply.

**Sent: 17:02, Wednesday, April 6**

_Andy,_

_Unfortunately, the company picnic is an event for families only. We invite all employees with spouses and children to attend, but you were not included on that list._

_Maybe we’ll see you next year :)_

_Mariella_

**Sent: 17:23, Wednesday, April 6**

_I see Carla and Martin both included in your distribution list. Neither of them is married, and Carla has only been with her boyfriend for three months. I’ve been living with my partner for two years._

_Just trying to get some clarity on what the issue is here._

_Andy_

**Sent: 17:41, Wednesday, April 6**

_Andy,_

_I’m very sorry, but this picnic is an event for families._

_Mariella_

 

Finally, the last line, the one Yuuri remembers from before: _This is bullshit_.

Yuuri’s heart is a lead weight, sinking in his chest. With fuller understanding of the situation, he hurts for Andy. He can’t help but sympathize. The world can be a harsh place, and that could just as easily be Yuuri someday, being told his relationship doesn’t qualify as appropriate for a family gathering.

He leans back in his chair, scrubbing at his face with both hands. Of the many questions swimming through his mind, one rises to the top—what to tell Victor? When they’d been given the case, Victor had seemed pleased that a huge client like RBS had asked for him specifically On the other hand, he’d also made sure to ask Royce if the accusation held weight before agreeing. Would he want to defend a client who engaged in this type of discrimination?

Yuuri chews at his lip. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer. In his bones, he knows he can’t bear to stay on such a case himself, but Victor may not feel the same. They haven’t worked together long, but Yuuri likes Victor. Finding out the other man would defend actions like these… 

Standing up, Yuuri grabs the zip drive from his computer. He turns, taking two steps toward the hall, then stops, reconsidering. Victor is busy. Yuuri had seen that for himself earlier, and it didn’t look like the sort of busy that would resolve itself in a half hour or so. Yuuri pictures barging into the office, interrupting Victor’s other work, and only to show him a couple of emails. 

Questioning himself, Yuuri sinks back into the chair. It’s probably not a good time. He should look through the rest of the new files, check out any of the other oddball messages. _Then_ he can decide to talk to Victor, and from there, whatever will be, will be.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> A chapter is here!
> 
> It's a plotty one! 
> 
> You may notice the total chapter count has changed and we're now at the halfway mark a little early. There's a reason for that, which will be revealed in more detail in the end notes!

Yuuri sighs and buries his face in his hands, scrunching the roots of his hair until he feels the pull at his scalp. He looks up, slapping his hands on his desk, and one of the other clerks shoots him a dubious glance as she walks by. Yuuri can’t remember her name, but he shrugs in her direction, and she doesn’t stop to ask what he’s worrying about. Judging from the way she bundles a notebook tight to her chest and rushes off, she’s got her own concerns to focus on.

It’s been three days since Yuuri got the opposition discovery files in the RBS case. Since then, he’s been buried up to his neck in research, to the point that shadowy figures from the emails have crept into his dreams, and he’s woken more than once in the dead of night with the imprint of black text and a white screen lingering on his eyelids. He’s also been deliberately avoiding Victor. That’s been easier than usual—Victor has been holed up in his office, buried in some other work—but Yuuri overheard José talking about a “break” in that case this morning.

He’s put it off as much as he can, but Yuuri’s come to accept the inevitable now. He can’t wait any longer to tell Victor about his findings. Though the termination paperwork in the file cites only an “attitude problem” and “poor cultural fit,” there’s more than enough evidence in the plaintiff’s documents to back up his complaint. Even among Andy’s supervisors, the language being used is heavily coded, but the implications are more than a little offensive. 

Yuuri shuts his eyes and pinches himself, trying to distract from the roil of nausea in his gut when he recalls some of the specifics. He’s read those emails and memos so many times, they’re burned onto his retinas. 

But even as Yuuri sympathizes with the plaintiff, he’s selfish. He still doesn’t want to tell Victor. Telling Victor means admitting the case bothers him. And that means talking about _why_ it affects him so deeply.

Yuuri has always been fairly open about who he is—he was out to his parents earlier than most people he knows—but the cloud of negativity around this case is far from the ideal set-up for him to come out to his bosses. 

For the past few days, he’s been building a small binder of his own, cultivated from copies of all the evidence he’s found that could support Andy’s discrimination claim, from screenshots of complaints left on “read” to the “limp wrists”-level language a few of the other RBS employees used.

If that’s what they were sending each other on company email, Yuuri can only imagine what they were saying in private, although one thing he’s learned from this files is that a lot of professionals are _remarkably_ unprofessional in their communications. 

Yuuri gathers up the binder he built and hugs it to his chest like a security blanket. In a worst case scenario where Victor thinks he’s insane, Yuuri at least has this proof to show he isn’t imagining things. He keeps it close as he rises from his desk and forces himself to march down the hall to Victor’s office.

As he gets closer to the open door, each rise of his foot feels heavier, pushing back against the gravity that implores him not to take this risk. Yuuri holds his binder until the plastic edges dig into his fingers, reminding himself why he has to speak up. 

Another intern passes him in the hallway, glances at Yuuri’s face, and hurries away. He must look like trouble today.

Victor’s door is standing open. He looks busy, papers scattered all across his desk as always, but Yuuri’s been here long enough now to learn that many people in law firms are very good at _appearing_ to be busy, trying to keep new assignments at bay. 

Yuuri taps on the door frame, and Victor looks up from his computer with a ready smile, which stretches when he sees who it is. His hand drops, revealing the phone he was actually looking at. Using the computer monitor as a shield—clever.

“Yuuri! Come in, please. I haven’t seen you around lately.” Victor starts to lean forward, elbows on his desk, and then his eyes fall onto the binder in Yuuri’s arms. The corners of his eyes go tight at the sight of impending work.

Sliding into the chair across from Victor, Yuuri can’t manage to meet his eyes, much less return his smile. Yuuri’s stomach is still churning with anticipation. Now that he’s here, he’s not sure where to begin.

Fingers press behind the point of Yuuri’s jaw, tilting his head toward the light. The gesture brings a flash of memory—Tori, her hands and gaze insistent, and her overwhelming presence mere inches away—but when Yuuri does raise his head, it’s still just Victor watching him, his blue eyes tranquil and kind.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Is something wrong?”

His genuine concern is the last thing Yuuri needs to break down the walls of his hesitation. He sucks in a shuddering breath and sets the binder down on the desk between them.

“I’ve been reviewing the discovery from Andy—the plaintiff in the RBS case,” Yuuri says, quickly correcting himself. “Looking through the files opposing counsel sent…” He has to break off to gather his thoughts again, another quick breath to steel his nerves before finishing. “I have reason to believe that the plaintiff _was_ wrongfully terminated because of his sexual orientation.”

Victor’s eyes flash as his expression settles from open to resolute. He folds his hands on the broad mahogany desk, leaning forward. “Show me.”

Yuuri opens the binder to the first highlighted page and begins chronologically. He builds the story as he sees it—the rude, “just a joke, man!” emails, the HR complaints, the lack of response, and onward through the course of several months. By the time he reaches the incident around the employee picnic, Victor has pulled the binder away, closer to himself. He thumbs through page after page, his eyes rapidly scanning the text, taking in all the evidence Yuuri collected in unshakeable black and white, with the relevant passages all highlighted and color-coded with post-it tabs.

Even after Yuuri stops speaking, Victor continues to read at an almost unreal pace. After a few minutes, he looks up over the edge of the binder, eyes meeting Yuuri’s, and Yuuri gathers himself for the moment he dreads, when Victor will ask _why_ Yuuri cares, or if it matters, or say something like, _I thought you wanted to be an attorney. You can’t only take clients who are innocent, Yuuri. This isn’t a movie_.

Instead, Victor flashes Yuuri a shaky smile. “You did really good work here.” He taps the binder with his finger. “You built a story, and you backed it up with the evidence.”

Yuuri blinks. He had prepared for a lot of outcomes, but praise wasn’t one of them. “Uh, thanks. I mean, thank you,” he says. “What does that mean? What comes next?”

Victor closes the binder, laying it back down on the desk, and runs a hand along his face. His shoulders slump as his eyes fall closed. When he opens them again, his expression is pained. “Can you give me a minute?” he asks. “I need to think about this.”

“Of course. Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Victor waves him away. “It’s fine. I don’t mind an audience.”

So Yuuri stays put, waiting as Victor closes his eyes once more, leaning back into the plush black cushion on his chair. It’s awkward, as the silence stretches on, but Yuuri doesn’t know what else to do. It would be even weirder if he suddenly left now, after deciding to stay.

There are three little lines forming between Victor’s carefully-groomed eyebrows, like a parent with a young child on each side. Aside from that, his face gives away nothing of his thoughts. Yuuri forces himself to look away, not wanting to be caught staring when Victor opens his eyes again. He searches for something else in the room to focus on, and notices a gold-framed photo on top of Victor’s desk. 

It might be new, or maybe it was just hidden before behind the piles of documents and books Victor usually has out. It’s tilted just enough that Yuuri can’t make out the figure in the picture, so he leans forward, scooting to the edge of his chair for a new angle.

Victor’s never mentioned kids, or a partner, but then they don’t usually talk about personal things, so Yuuri isn’t sure what to expect. The fluffy brown dog grinning back at him is a pleasant surprise. Its mouth is parted, panting in a big doggy smile as it sits primly on a porch, posing for the picture. The dog’s expression demands an answering smile from Yuuri. He’s always liked poodles, but he’s never seen one so big or fluffy-looking before. It’s more like a huge plush toy than a real dog.

“Okay,” Victor says suddenly, sucking a breath through his teeth. Yuuri turns from the photo, meeting Victor’s resolute gaze again as he stands up behind his desk. “Get your binder, please. We’re going to speak with Mr. Hart.”

Yuuri can feel the blood leave his face, but if Victor notices the change in his complexion, he doesn’t mention it. In seconds, he’s crossed the room and is out the door, and Yuuri has to jog to catch up.

He’s never met Wexler or Hart. Even Yuuri’s interview had been handled by junior partners and an office manager. This is _not_ how he’d pictured introducing himself to his boss’s boss; in fact, he’d very much prefer to never meet them at all. Yuuri hasn’t even sat the Bar yet. He’s not ready for this level of pressure.

But Victor isn’t wasting any time checking in on Yuuri’s feelings now. Yuuri trails him through the halls to the elevators and follows him inside. The partners’ offices are one floor up, and the elevator ride can’t be more than thirty seconds, but it feels like an hour. Yuuri clutches his binder to his chest and watches Victor, but the other man is stone-faced, focused fully on the gleaming stainless steel doors ahead.

When the elevator dings, a whole other Victor steps out of the car. He combs his hair back from his eyes with one hand and flashes a toothy smile across the room. The change is so abrupt, Yuuri feels like the ground is shifting beneath him again. He’s so caught, he almost forgets to leave the elevator, squeezing out after Victor just before the doors close.

The lobby of the upper floor is a far cry from the grey carpets and cubicles Yuuri lives in downstairs. This is a land of rich, dark hardwoods and ornate maroon and gold carpets, of windows on every wall with open, gauzy curtains and the soothing tinkle of a small decorative fountain. Overseeing it all is a petite older woman with tightly-curled grey hair, watching Victor and Yuuri with sharp green eyes from behind a desk larger than Yuuri’s bed at home. 

It’s for her sake that Victor is smiling, wiggling his fingers in greeting like he’s popped in for a casual visit as he crosses the room to perch on the corner of her desk. “Good morning, Rhonda,” he says. “you’re looking lovely as always. Is that a new hairstyle?”

Rhonda’s mouth pinches inward, and she never takes her eyes off the man on her desk. “Victor Nikiforov, you’ve been here five years. You know perfectly well that I never change my hairstyle.” She slides her gaze over to Yuuri briefly before returning to Victor. “What do you need from me that requires _back-up_?”

“Just wondering if you could take a look in the appointment book for me and see if Mr. Hart has an opening for us today?” Victor lets the smile fall away, showing the same composure he’d displayed to Yuuri in his office once more. “I’m afraid it’s important.”

“It’s always important to _you_ ,” Rhonda mutters, shaking her head, but she reaches for her computer mouse all the same, and Yuuri can hear the click-click on her fake nails tapping on the plastic as she navigates the office calendar. “He’s got a long lunch scheduled,” she says, frowning. “He said he’ll be out till two, but that usually turns into something closer to four.”

Victor says something under his breath not suitable for polite company. Yuuri’s never heard him curse before, but Rhonda looks nonplussed by the language. 

“Is it really that serious?” she asks, watching Victor as if she can compel the truth from him with her eyes alone.

“I’m afraid so.”

Rhonda folds her hands on the desk, steepling her fingers. “He’s in there now. You have fifteen minutes before his car comes for lunch. Good enough?”

“I’ll make it work,” Victor vows, again flashing his teeth. 

Rhonda is a powerful woman to be so unaffected. Yuuri wonders if she could teach him that magic, if he asked. She picks up the phone on her desk and speaks a few words into the receiver, then nods toward the double doors a few feet away. 

“Good luck,” she says, but her voice is flat. Victor only nods in response.

The panic clamoring at the inside of Yuuri’s skull is white noise, like a TV left on static at maximum volume, all whispers and screeching. As they step through those double doors, his first thought is that Walter Hart is a very big man.

Yuuri’s mental image of a highly successful corporate attorney has always been something like an older version of Victor—slim, refined, and carefully styled. Instead, lounging behind a desk wider than Yuuri’s dining room table, Mr. Hart is a bear of a man, with broad shoulders and a full head of thick, curly black hair threaded with grey. Half of the wall behind him is crowded with bookshelves, matching maroon leather spines and bright gold letters all in a row. All other available space is filled by photos, medals, and trophies. Yuuri’s never been one for team sports, but he knows a hockey stick when he sees one.

Hart looks up from the phone in his hand and flashes a grin. A gold-covered tooth catches the light. “Mr. Nikiforov,” he says. His voice is low, and it sounds like a growl despite the smile on his face. “I wasn’t expecting you. How’s the RBS case coming along?” His eyes drift over to Yuuri, then snap back. It gives Yuuri the sudden sensation of being a mouse, insignificant but targeted by something very large and dangerous. He has the urge to dive for the tall grass.

“I’m afraid that’s what we’re here about,” Victor says. His voice is steady. He holds out a hand at his side, palm up, and it takes Yuuri a moment to realize he’s looking for the binder. Yuuri takes a quick step forward, handing it over, and Victor’s eyes seem to light up as he looks back to give Yuuri a brief smile. “This is Yuuri Katsuki. He’s been assisting me with the case.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Hart grumbles, but he doesn’t look at Yuuri again. It’s a relief.

Gripping the binder in both hands, Victor turns to face Hart directly. Yuuri thought that Victor was composed before, but from behind he can see the subtle way Victor’s shoulders flex and the way his head raises ever so slightly as he steels himself for the next part of the conversation.

“In searching through the discovery files, Yuuri has uncovered evidence that RBS did legitimately discriminate against the plaintiff as a result of his sexual orientation.” Victor steps forward, opening the binder and laying it out flat on Hart’s desk. “I’ve looked over his findings, and I’m afraid that he’s correct.”

Silence settles over the room, stifling as a summer storm. Hart purses his lips, but he doesn’t look down at the binder to confirm or contradict Yuuri’s findings. 

He settles back into his cushioned chair. “So?” he asks. Victor doesn’t reply. “You want to be reassigned, don’t you?” Hart waits long enough for Victor to nod, then shoves the binder away. His mouth twists into a scowl. “I’m disappointed, Nikiforov, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Yuuri opens his mouth, searching for words to back Victor up, but Victor speaks again before he has the chance. His voice is like dry ice—it burns. “When I was assigned this case, I was told it was because of my past relationship with the client. Am I right to assume now the only reason you assigned me is because I’m openly gay?”

If Yuuri had something to say, it evaporates from his tongue as Victor casually outs himself. _Oh._ Not that it had never occurred to Yuuri that— _maybe_ —but—

“I suggested to RBS that it might strengthen their case,” Hart acknowledges with a slight shrug. “I thought you might be ready for the responsibility.”

To Victor’s credit, he doesn’t visibly wince, but Yuuri does. It’s not a sentiment anyone wants to hear from their boss, at least not in that tone.

“I can’t in good conscience take this case,” Victor says, “given the circumstances. I’m sure you understand.”

Hart finally picks up the binder, only to snap it closed and set it at the top of his outbox pile. “As I mentioned, I’m not surprised.” He pauses, then adds, “but I’m not happy. We’ll reassign this one. You’ll need to turn over all your files and notes to the new team as soon as I find one. Royce will update you.”

“Thank you—” Victor begins, but Hart cuts him off.

“You’ve got nothing to thank me for. Don’t think this incident won’t be noted in your yearly review.” He leans forward on his desk, plants his elbow, and levels a single finger in the direction of the doors. “Now, I have a lunch to get to.”

Victor nods to Hart and turns to leave. Yuuri hesitates for a second— _should he say something? “Nice to meet you, sir”?_ —but, uncertain, he follows Victor’s lead instead.

Out in the lobby, Rhonda now has a headset on, a blinking red light on the earpiece. She waves to them, and they both return the gesture but push through to the elevators. It’s only after they’re alone in the elevator car, before they even press the button for the floor, that Victor sags back against the wall and turns to Yuuri. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. Under the fluorescent lights, Victor looks worn and white. He pushes his bangs back from his face with one hand, furthering the disarray. “I didn’t mean to ruin that opportunity for you as well. I can email Hart after we get back, let him know you still want to work on the case.”

“What? No!” Yuuri’s protest is amplified by the tiny elevator car. He jabs the button for their floor. “I didn’t want it either. That’s why I brought you the evidence. _I_ couldn’t…” He sighs. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“Yuuri—” Victor begins, but the elevator immediately interrupts him, chiming to announce that their short ride is over. 

Yuuri steps out and holds the door open, and Victor follows sedately, drifting down the hall back toward his office. Yuuri bites his lip, considering. Victor looks so listless. Yuuri can’t just leave him alone to stew like this.

He follows, bypassing the front desk and the cubicle farm where he logically ought to be getting back to work. Victor’s eyebrows raise when Yuuri walks into his office too, pausing to close the door behind them, but he doesn’t comment.

Why did Yuuri come in here? Victor drops into his chair and looks up at Yuuri expectantly, but he wasn’t thinking so far ahead when he decided to come, only that Victor didn’t seem like he should be alone. 

Now that it’s just the two of them, together with a rising twist of nerves in Yuuri’s gut, he’s not sure what to say. His gaze falls onto the desk, where the dog photo he saw earlier is still leaning, and he picks it up.

“Who’s this?” Yuuri asks. A wave of relief washes over him when Victor’s melancholy air fades into a fond smile.

“That’s my Makkachin,” he says. “She helped me study for all my law school exams.”

Yuuri smiles at that. What a thing to say about a dog. “She looks like a great study buddy. She’s a poodle, right?”

“Yes!” Victor surges to his feet, his face breaking into a grin like the sun emerging on a cloudy day. “You like poodles, Yuuri?” Yuuri nods, and Victor seems to teleport to his side, phone in his hand. “Makkachin turned _ten_ this year—can you believe it?” He doesn’t wait for Yuuri to answer, tapping eagerly at his photo stream. “I threw a party and everything. I even got her to wear a party hat long enough to take a picture—see?”

The photo is _adorable_ , the poodle’s mouth parted in a wide doggy grin, as if she’s happy about the pink and gold cylinder perched on her head. Then Victor rests his thumb on the screen, and the live version of the photo shows the aftermath as she whips her head back and forth, shaking the hat down until she can fasten her teeth on it. The next photo shows the remains of the hat in shreds on the floor as Makkachin turns her attention to a large pile of presents.

Victor scrolls through the entire album, introducing Yuuri to each of Makkachin’s friends from the dog park and revealing the fate of each new toy she received—most of which were apparently destroyed within a few days. Leaning against the desk at Victor’s side, warm where their shoulders touch as they share his phone, Yuuri almost forgets the reason he came in here to begin with.

When Victor reaches the end of the birthday album, reality settles back over them. 

Now that the RBS case is being reassigned, Yuuri realizes, he won’t have anything in particular to discuss with Victor. 

Sure, he might be pulled in to help on background here or there, but it’s unlikely they’ll have any reason to work so closely again before the end of summer. Yuuri hadn’t thought about that when he was worrying over the case, because he had so many questions that were much more pressing, but the idea makes him a bit—not sad, exactly. Quiet. He’s only just getting to know Victor as a person.

“I guess you probably need to get back to other assignments, huh?” Victor says, turning off his phone and lowering it back to his side.

“Yeah, I guess.” Yuuri sighs, “Lots of exciting motions still to write.”

Victor chuckles, but it sounds hollow. Yuuri doesn’t leave. Victor doesn’t move.

“What were you going to say before,” Yuuri asks, “in the elevator, when you said my name?”

“Oh.” Victor is looking at the door ahead of them, but his expression has gone pensive once again. He doesn’t bother with the false smiles this time. “I was going to tell you that you did the right thing.”

It takes several more minutes before Yuuri finally goes back to his cube.

-

Tori checks herself in Podium’s mirror for the third time, twisting around for a good view of her ass in the high-waisted jean shorts she’s debuting on the street tonight. It’s not a bad look, but she’s having trouble getting used to it. She’s wearing a t-shirt— _a t-shirt_. She’s never worn one with tits on before, but she’s taking a page from Saki’s book tonight and going for casual. It feels weird, but not in a bad way—just different.

After one last tug at her waistband, Tori turns back to the task of packing. She’s been thinking about what Saki needs all week, focusing her attention on that to distract from the recent clusterfuck her job has become until it blows over, and there are a few more items in her closets at Podium that she wants to show Saki.

The dressing room door creaks as Chris enters, leaning against the wall. “You’re not wearing _that_ , are you?”

Frowning, Tori tugs at her shorts again. “What’s wrong with it? Are the shorts flattening my ass after all? I keep trying to look, but it’s hard to see your own butt.”

“Now there’s a problem I know all too well,” Chris says. He shakes his head and folds his arms. “Your ass looks peachy as ever, and the shorts are brilliant—never change them, but are you really planning on performing in a t-shirt?”

Tori stops packing, turning her full attention to Chris. “What? I’m not performing tonight.”

“You’re on the schedule. I texted you Tuesday, remember? Mika has the flu, so I moved the days around?”

_Shit_. She does remember, now that he mentions it, but on Tuesday she was still hip-deep in the fallout from the RBS situation. It hadn’t sunk in that her schedule at the club might have changed, and she didn’t check the calendar at all. 

“I can’t,” Tori says. She almost runs a hand over her face, then remembers the make-up. She settles for tugging at the ends of the bobbed wig she’s wearing. “Chris, I’m sorry. I told Saki I’d be at The Alley to support her tonight.”

“That’s too bad for the princess,” Chris says, “but you can tell her that you’ll turn her pumpkin into a coach tomorrow night instead.”

“She’s not performing _tomorrow_ night. Chris, you know I hate to do this, but I promised her I’d be there—”

“You’re not retired yet,” Chris snaps. The whip in his tone pulls Tori to a stop, and then it’s stalemate—she can’t walk out, but she’s sure as shit not going to stay. 

“Where the hell did that come from?” 

Chris’s mouth is a firm line. He’s a stubborn bastard when he wants to be. It’s a trait that’s worked in his favor professionally, but it can make friendships difficult. “I’m confused,” he says. “It’s not like you to let some hot piece get to you this way. You used to give a damn about the shows and the club.”

“I give a damn,” Tori protests, “and Saki isn’t ‘some hot piece’. I’m her _mentor_. This is about performing, not a—” she wrinkles her nose. “A sex thing.”

“Could have fooled me,” Chris mutters. When Tori doesn’t dignify that with a response, he adds, “You didn’t think much of her performing when we saw her at The Alley that first night. It’s not until she climbed a pole and then practically climbed into your lap that you—”

“That’s enough.” Tori’s voice drops, no facade on the tone. She grabs the IKEA bag she packed up earlier and slings it over her shoulder. “If you mean to persuade me to stay tonight, insulting my— _Saki_ —isn’t going to do it. I’m going to her show tonight, and that’s it.” Chris’s lips part, and she keeps going, cutting him off, “And I’m _not_ just going to stare at her ass!”

“Okay,” Chris says, smirking as he raises his hands in defeat. “Whatever you want to tell yourself, then.”

Tori gives him the bird as she shows herself to the door. 

-

It’s hot outside today—way too hot for Yuri to be wearing a black hoodie, but he can’t bring himself to take it off. He hasn’t started to sweat yet. If he does, that will spell the end of the sweatshirt, but until then, he resists. Better to lose a layer than to suffer the indignity of sweaty palms and clumping hair before he even gets inside the club. 

It’s still early set-up, and JJ isn’t even outside yet to harass him. Yuri flips his phone from one hand to the other, waiting for Otabek to answer his text. It’s the first time he’s come to set up like this, and he’s actually kind of looking forward to it. If he’s getting in under the guise of helping the DJ, he might as well actually learn some DJ stuff. 

He stops tossing his phone long enough to check the time again—three minutes since he messaged saying he was outside—and the door to Podium flies open. Yuri looks up, expecting Otabek, but it’s Tori who appears instead, walking like murder in platform sandals and a faded band t-shirt pulled tight over her chest. She looks like she’s on a mission, and she blows past Yuri on the sidewalk without so much as a teasing comment.

Yuri’s tempted to yell after her, but before he can gather his tongue, someone tugs at his arm. He turns to find Otabek standing in the open doorway, head tilted at him. 

“Coming in?” Otabek asks.

Yuri nods and follows. Whatever is up Tori’s ass today, at least it’s got nothing to do with him. 

With all the overhead lights on, walking into Podium is like picking up a log in the forest; the dark soil beneath is exposed, and many-legged beings scurry away, diving for the shadows. It’s a lot less glamorous than Yuri expected it to be. The bartenders and servers are sweeping the floors and prepping the bar as a manager with curly blond hair paces the stage, a phone pressed between his ear and shoulder, begging someone on the other end to come in to perform at the last minute. 

Yuri trails Otabek over to the DJ booth, and without a word of explanation, Otabek passes him a cord, then gestures to the sound equipment before kneeling down to hook things up himself.

Shifting his weight on his feet, Yuri looks from the end of the cord in his hand to the turntable, then over to the laptop. So much for getting instructions and learning something. 

It’s been a couple weeks already, and he and Otabek haven’t exchanged much more than hellos. Otabek texts him sometimes, but usually it’s just pics from the drag shows or cute animals he sees on his walk to work. Yuri responds with photos of his cat, Potya, and links to Spotify playlists he likes, but actual words and text? It’s lacking. 

When he’d imagined getting into Podium and making friends, Yuri had expected a bit more than sitting in the DJ booth, sipping Sprite and watching from a distance while others danced. 

He clears his throat, scuffing his shoe along the concrete floor, and Otabek turns to look up at him. He’s wearing that black leather jacket he always seems to have on, even when it’s twenty degrees hotter in the club from the lights and the press of bodies, and there’s a weird little patch of hair that sticks out behind his ear, where he missed a spot touching up his undercut.

Otabek nods to the cord Yuri’s still holding onto like an idiot. “That goes to one of the speakers,” he says.

“I know that,” Yuri snaps, even though he didn’t. When Otabek turns back around, Yuri nudges him with his foot.

“What?”

The buzz of frustration that’s been building under Yuri’s skin swells, and he huffs. “What the hell am I here for if you won’t even talk to me? Why are you even letting me in?”

Otabek sets down the equipment he’s holding and stands up, turning to face Yuri straight on. His expression is inscrutable as he watches Yuri as if measuring something in his mind. “You don’t live around here,” he says. “Right? So how do you get here every week?”

Yuri sighs, folding his arms. “I take the damn bus—what’s it matter?”

Otabek nods, then asks, “And your class at school, it’s what—eight people? Twelve?” 

“... twenty-five,” Yuri answers, his gaze dropping to the floor. Twenty-five kids in his whole graduating class, and he’s known every one of them since the second grade. They all remember Yuri when he was ten and had a bowl cut and cried in class because his mom couldn’t be bothered to turn up for the annual mother’s day lunch. 

None of them would ever let him forget it.

“Fourteen,” Otabek says, and Yuri’s head shoots up in time to see Otabek’s lips twitch—the ghost of a smile. “That’s how big my class was—fourteen. We were two hours from the nearest city, and I felt like the only queer kid in the world some days.

“I got a license at fifteen and one of the first places I went was a divey gay bar forty-five minutes from my house. It was cowboy-themed.” He smirks. “They threw me out on my ass before I even got off my bike.”

“Did you go back?” Yuri asks quietly.

“No. That one wasn’t my scene. But it didn’t stop me from trying others.” Otabek shrugged, the metal bits on his jacket jingling at the movement. “Everyone wants to fit in somewhere.”

That strikes Yuri in the chest, and he lapses into silence. He kneels on the concrete beside Otabek and plugs in the speaker cord lying nearly forgotten in his hand. When Otabek hands him another, he doesn’t ask where it goes, but searches the outlets by shape, figuring it out for himself. 

“Do your parents know?” Otabek asks.

Yuri’s hands fall to rest on his knees, and he feigns fascination with the equipment in front of them. “I live with my grandpa. He knows about as much as I do,” he admits. “He knows enough.”

Some tension ebbs from Otabek’s shoulders at that, and he reaches out, his hand gripping Yuri’s shoulder briefly as he levers himself back to his feet. “Good,” he says. “That’s a good start. You’ve got time to work out the rest.”

Yuri nods. _Time_. It doesn’t _feel_ like he has it. He’s already sixteen, after all.

Otabek holds out a hand, and Yuri lets himself be pulled to his feet. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before the doors open,” Otabek says, nodding to his laptop. “Help refine my playlist?” 

Now _that_ Yuri can handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I mentioned this on Twitter already, but I sat down recently to reorganize my notes for the remaining chapters. I came up much shorter than I'd anticipated (like, 10 chapters of material rather than 14). Looking though my outline, I want to take some time to think things over a bit more and make sure my pacing looks good for the next parts.
> 
> Since I have a couple bangs I'm working on right now as well as some side-projects, I've decided to put this story on hiatus for the month of July. That will give me the chance to take my time and make sure that things aren't absolutely insane in the coming chapters, without having to rush through that (and writing the next part) to make sure I meet all my deadlines!
> 
> Nothing This Beautiful will return in **August**! In the meantime, you can watch my [twitter](https://twitter.com/louciferish) for updates and previews of coming chapters/works and such.
> 
> Thank you for your continued support!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! And a longer than average chapter, too. Thank you all for your patience as I took my time working through the details here and polished up by angst bang draft as well. 
> 
> Restraining myself from spoiling this chapter, but... I hope you all enjoy it :D

In all the reading Yuri had done online, all the research he’d undertaken on bars in the area, none of it had prepared him for how _sticky_ the goddamn floors are. It’s not like movie theater levels of sticky—toes of his boots glued to the floor with years of caked-on sugar and half-chewed gum, sucking him into a forgotten childhood like it’s quicksand in an eighties movie. He doesn’t notice it on the short trip from the door back to the DJ booth, but when he has to kneel on the floor or reach down to pick up something that’s fallen? Oh, yeah. It’s sticky.

He makes a face as he hits the deck right before Tori’s performance, scrambling to reconnect a wire that got kicked out of place by an overenthusiastic dancer. Yuri can feel the moment the knees of his jeans grab the concrete and attach like velcro bits coming together. He’s sure that it’s going to feel like velcro when he pulls it apart, too.

It only takes him a second to find the loose cable. Tori is already sashaying her way out into the limelight as Yuri puts it back where it belongs, using feeling alone to find the connection. The audio reconnects with a quiet pop, and Yuri smiles, fleeting. There’s something satisfying about this, even if it isn’t supposed to be his job. Yuri is _small_ , and sometimes he hates that, but when a need arises for someone to crawl under a table or climb up onto the lighting rig, it’s useful.

He’s not sure how Otabek ever managed without his help, and that means they can never make him leave now.

Raising his arm overhead, he flashes Otabek a thumbs up to show everything is fixed, then begins the slow and disgusting process of clawing his way back up from the floor to the booth. Otabek nods as Yuri settles back onto his usual stool. His face is shadowed and broken by the flash of lights from overhead as Tori bounces across the stage over his shoulder in a cheer-leading uniform, throwing winks and twirling pigtails as she mouths at the audience to _call me, maybe_.

It’s the last performance of the night, and Yuri stifles a yawn, hiding it behind the collar of his t-shirt. _“Up past your bedtime?”_ is one of the comments he gets most often from friends and strangers alike on these nights, and he bristles every time, even though he knows that’s exactly why they do it.

At last the song comes to an end—Yuri’s going to be ear-wormed with that pop shit for a _long_ damned time—and Otabek flips over to his dance mix, leaning back in his chair as a heavy beat vibrates out across the club and patrons surge to the cleared floor.

“Thanks for that,” Otabek yells, nodding over to the back of the booth, and Yuri raises his thumb again. Otabek mirrors it, a small smile tugging at his mouth. It’s sort of their thing these days, no matter how loud the club gets.

Otabek leans in closer again, and his mouth is moving, but Yuri can’t hear him over the beat. “What?” he yells.

Frustrated, Otabek scowls, then pulls his phone from his pocket, typing something out. He turns the screen toward Yuri, an open message blinking there on a white screen.

_Want to dance?_

Almost as quickly as the question appeared, it vanishes, the phone and the offer withdrawn. Yuri isn’t sure what Otabek saw on his face in that brief moment, but apparently it sent a pretty clear message: **no**.

Otabek turns back to the booth, fiddling with the dials as if something came up, but Yuri’s learned enough already to know nothing is wrong with the levels. He just wants an excuse to not look at Yuri.

 _Shit._ Yuri chews his lip, eyes sliding out to the writhing crowd packed between the booth and the stage. Tori’s still sitting on the edge of the platform, twirling the end of a tail around her finger as she chats with a customer. She makes it look so easy. They _all_ do, and maybe this is why people drink. It’s not the first time that Yuri’s wondered if sneaking a beer would help him push past this feeling, this constant pressure he feels like _everyone is watching_.

Then he remembers where drinking lead his dad, and what would happen to him if he got caught. JJ's still salivating to give him the boot out of here. Yuri sucks at math, but this is a simple enough equation. He can’t risk it. He doesn't even want to.

But he does want to dance.

Every weekend on the bus, he pictures it—earbuds in and one of Otabek’s club mixes playing on his phone. Yuri stares out the window as the bus winds past fields and farms, and he imagines himself out on the floor. He knows how to dance. He pictures himself moving to these songs—solo, usually, or sometimes with a partner. Sometimes on the stage.

Now, he watches the tension in Otabek’s shoulders as he hunches over the laptop, and wishes he could know what the fuck he’s doing for once. Yuri scowls and looks away—right at Tori, who wiggles her fingers and mouths something at him that looks like _Go for it_ but might be _Don’t blow it_. Both seem plausible.

It’s only later, when most of the customers have drifted out and Yuri’s shouldering his backpack to catch the last bus home, that they speak about it again. Otabek walks him to the bus station, and the night is cool and deep around them, broken here and there by the faraway sounds of drunken laughter.

“I want to dance,” Yuri blurts out, interrupting his own complaining about the bus schedule. “I’m _good_ at it. I took lessons as a kid, but—”

If Otabek finds the sudden change in subject surprising, he doesn’t show it. “I know,” he says. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. Whenever you’re ready.”

And the most shocking part of hearing that, for Yuri, is realizing that he already knew. In his head, before he’d ever squeezed himself through the door, he’d been holding Podium up like a beacon, a safe space where he’d be able to figure things out, where people could _help_. And, much to his surprise, that's what he's getting. For the first time since he was little, Yuri isn’t being let down by anyone.

When the bus pulls up to the station at last, the headlights find Yuri and Otabek huddled in the station deep in discussion, their heads bent over a single phone, each with one earbud in his ear.

-

 

When Yuuri was little, his mom’s friend Minako had worked her ass off trying to make Yuuri into a ballet dancer. When that didn't fully take, she pointed him to other sports. A big chunk of his childhood had been consumed by athletics of one kind or another, and Yuuri’s parents both admit that they expected Yuuri to turn pro at one of those many pursuits.

These days, Yuuri doesn’t think much about those years outside of his Wednesday morning barre classes, but there is one exception. Yuuri is never so grateful to _not_ be a professional athlete as when Phichit decides to cook dinner.

His mouth is already watering, and they’ve barely even started the alfredo sauce. Yuuri always put on weight easily, and that might have been a problem if he had ambitions toward ballet, but for Saki it’s _good_ if Yuuri is a little soft around the edges. It helps sell the illusion. And, now that Tori has introduced him to an affordable tailor near the club, having his dresses let out is an option if necessary.

And Yuuri will gladly pay to have most of his dresses altered if it means eating Phichit’s chicken alfredo more than once a month.

Dropping the last few slices of chicken breast in the skillet to brown, Yuuri rests his forehead on Phichit’s shoulder for a moment. “Thank you for this,” he mutters.

Phichit laughs, carefree. “Thank _me_? You paid for all the ingredients, and you’re doing half the work!”

“Still,” Yuuri says, lifting his head to flip the chicken. “I needed this after last weekend.”

“Cream sauce is cheaper than therapy,” Phichit agrees. “But why was this weekend so rough?” He turns, raising his eyebrows at Yuuri. “It sure looked like you and Tori were having a good time when I saw you.”

Yuuri groans, and Phichit’s face falls. “Are you guys… not having a good time?”

Turning down the stove to the chicken won’t burn, Yuuri scrubs at his face with both hands. “I’m already letting her down,” he admits. “Every time she comes to see me perform, my brain is like, _This is it. This is the day she’ll regret helping me and quit._ ”

“Yuuri, that’s ridiculous—”

“I know!” The frustration in Yuuri’s voice stretches, then snaps. With the tension broken, he slumps like a bouquet lacking for water. He repeats, quieter, “I know. It’s not as if she didn’t know what she was getting into, but she’s giving up her time and canceling her own performances to help me with mine, and I just—can’t do this.”

Phichit’s lips are a flat, thin line. The stove timer beeps, and he turns off the burner. “I have comments,” he says. “For starters, you’ve improved a lot since Tori started coming by. While I drain the pasta, can you tell me what you _think_ is a problem?"

Yuuri leans on the counter with both elbows for support. “Tori’s told me that I should imagine the audience isn’t there, but I can’t manage it at all.” He groans in frustration. “I can’t sell these routines the way Tori expects me to, and I can tell it’s still lacking, even when she doesn’t say it.”

Phichit hums, returning to the stove to finish stirring his cream sauce. “I guess,” he says, in the tone of someone who does not agree. “I’m not sure what to tell you—the Yuuri I know has no problems when it comes to charisma.”

“The Yuuri you know is usually either alone in this apartment, or drunk.” Yuuri shakes his head. “Pretending I’m alone hasn’t been working, and going on stage drunk would be a _disaster_.”

“It would be entertaining,” Phichit hazards, but at Yuuri’s sharp look, he adds, “an entertaining disaster.” Turning off the burner under the sauce, he claps a comforting hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Maybe you just need to find the right motivation to make you feel sexy, like…” a wide grin stretches his face, shining, “Fettuccine alfredo!”

Laughing, Yuuri shakes his head. “Putting together cream sauce and sex seems a little too on the nose, but I’m willing to give it an audition.”

“Good, because dinner is ready for its close-up, Mr. DeMille.” 

As always, the food is delicious. It leaves Yuuri and Phichit both stretched back in their chairs and rubbing their bellies in satisfaction, lazy and content. It does not, however, make Yuuri feel sexy—which is a bit of a relief, actually. It would be pretty counterproductive if he had to think about anything related to his roommate to get in the mood.

He sighs happily, weighing the comfort of his bed versus a round of gaming.

“That was good, if I do say so myself,” Phichit said. “Maybe tomorrow night, for your turn, you could do katsudon? We haven’t had that in _forever_.”

“Sure,” Yuuri says, then groans as he remembers—“Wait, no. I have to work late tomorrow.”

“Again?” Phichit exclaims, sitting up. “That’s the third night in the past week! I know you want to stop fretting over routines and Saki, but working yourself to death is not the answer.”

“Believe me, I know. It’s not making anything easier, but I can’t avoid it. We’ve got a big hearing this week, so they need me to help prepare—everyone is on deck for this, not just me.”

With a sympathetic noise, Phichit offers Yuuri the XBox controller. “Kill things for stress relief?”

“Please,” Yuuri says. There’s a lot going on, but gaming is the safest option to get him through the next few days. At least the extra hours are only temporary. If he had to choose between Saki and this job forever… well, he’s not sure which would win.

-

Victor’s removal from the RBS case has resulted in a couple of slow weeks, among other things. He has plenty of piddly administrative work to do and a couple cases that will move toward hearings or deposition in the coming months, but nothing pressing. He has more free time in the evenings right now than he’s had in a couple years.

Too bad the reasons for that are hardly repeatable. If Victor pulled out of another client that way, he’d have more than enough time to spend with Makkachin—because he’d be fired. That much was clear from the partners’ response.

He’s not even sure what to _do_ with so many free evenings. He’d asked Chris for some more shifts at Podium, but the club thought it a waste to put Tori on stage on a weekday night. He’d asked Saki about extra practice time, but she had stuttered out something about other plans. Victor envisions a long timeline stretching out before him, featuring dinners from the Whole Foods salad bar and trashy reality TV on the sofa with Makka. It's not his ideal future.

Packing the last of the folders he might need into his messenger bag, Victor flips off the light in his office and stops, surprised to find a glow still illuminating one end of the hall. He glances at his watch to double check—it’s past 6:30, and he hasn’t seen anyone else walk by his office in at least an hour.

Curious, he turns away from the elevator bank and heads over to check who else hasn’t left yet.

All the overhead lights are on in the largest conference room, and the long, polished table is scattered with stacks of paper and open binders. To Victor’s surprise, there’s only one person in the room—Yuuri, looking harried as he dashes from one end of the table to the other, restacking the piles and wielding a large hole-punch like a bat. He gets close enough to the door that Victor feels inclined to duck his swing.

When Victor moves, Yuuri notices him, and his cheeks pink. “Oh! I’m sorry. How long have you been standing there?”

“Only a minute,” Victor says, wondering what he might have seen had he arrived a few minutes earlier. He cranes his head back out into the hallway, but doesn’t see any other lights or hear the pitter-patter of little intern feet. “Are you alone in here?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri answers. Victor flashes to annoyance at that, and it must show on his face because Yuuri rushes to explain, “It’s my fault. I told everyone else they could leave! They all wanted to go to a happy hour mixer, so I told them I could handle it alone.”

Victor mentally weighs the stacks on the table again. It’s not an impossible task for one person, and the worst part—the printing—seems to be done, but the sheer quantity of stuff to organize will keep Yuuri here until nine at least. It’s not fair, and the choice is obvious.

Victor sets his messenger bag down on a nearby chair, slings his suit jacket over the back, and rolls up his sleeves. Yuuri stands frozen, still holding his hole-punch with both hands.

“What are you doing?” he asks. He sounds shaky—he’ll have to train himself out of that someday. He shouldn’t sound so nervous in front of a judge or a jury, no matter how he feels.

“First,” Victor says, raising one finger, “I’m going to order us some dinner. Then, I’m going to help you finish these hearing binders so you don’t die of old age _or_ fall asleep on the conference table and wake up with three rings imprinted on your face.” He winks. “I may be speaking from experience on that last one.”

Yuuri flushes to the tips of his ears when he’s embarrassed. Victor thinks it’s _precious_ ; Saki has the same habit whenever Tori gets close to her, and Victor isn’t sure which of them he noticed it in first, but it’s cute in both editions.

“You don’t have to do that,” Yuuri protests. Most likely he means the helping, but Victor chooses to pretend he’s talking about the food.

He waves away Yuuri’s words. “I’ll put it on the firm’s expense account. They’d have bought you _all_ dinner if the other interns stayed anyway. Any requests? Pizza? Thai?”

“Please no,” Yuuri says quickly. At Victor’s curious look, he adds, “I get a lot of both of those at home. Anything else is fine, though.”

Victor pauses a moment, pondering which of the local spots will deliver the quickest at peak times. “Chinese?” he suggests, and Yuuri nods, so Victor grabs his cell from his jacket and goes to the kitchen to call in an order from the menus on the fridge.

“You really don’t need to do this,” Yuuri repeats when Victor returns. His tone is much more firm this time. “You already bought me dinner—that’s a huge help. I’m sure you have something you’d rather do than stuff binders for someone else’s client.”

“Too bad for you, but I don’t.” Victor drops into one of the overstuffed conference room chairs, swinging from side to side. He puts on an exaggerated pout that has a much better success rate with bubblegum pink lipgloss. “All my friends canceled on me; even Makkachin is sick of my face. You’re saving me from a sad, dull evening of Netflix and Top Ramen.”

“Oh, well in _that_ case,” Yuuri says, plopping a half-full binder down on the table in front of Victor. “Welcome to the party. The stacks are all numbered, and there’s an index in the front.”

“Yes, sir,” Victor snaps back, privately thrilled. There’s a little spark to Yuuri that always intrigues him, a crisp wittiness that shines through his somewhat unassuming exterior in unexpected moments. Victor would _love_ to know more of what that’s about. Maybe tonight he’ll have a chance.

They work in silence at first. It’s been a long time since Victor last had to assemble trial binders himself, and now that he’s doing it again, he feels sort of bad for sloughing the dull, repetitive tasks off onto so many interns and legal assistants. It is mind-numbingly boring, and he’s grateful for the break when his phone rings, forcing him to run downstairs and retrieve their food.

He’s stuck to some classics—cashew chicken, beef and broccoli, mixed veggies, egg rolls, crab rangoons, and egg drop soup. Yuuri’s eyes go wide when Victor re-enters the room carrying three plastic bags with a liter of 7-Up tucked under his arm. It hadn’t seemed like so much food when he was ordering it, but he's reconsidering now.

They set it all out on chairs pushed up against the wall, since the table in infested with documents. Then Yuuri has to run to the kitchen for plates and napkins, since Victor failed to think of either.

At first, the meal is as quiet as the work was. Yuuri is still focused on the binders to an extent Victor thinks is somewhere between scary and admirable. His own eyes are beginning to cross from all the monotonous tasks, but Yuuri seems immune to a need for breaks.

Then, Yuuri makes a mournful sound. Victor’s head shoots up from his plate, and he finds Yuuri scrubbing at a document with a napkin, muttering curses.

“What happened?”

Yuuri looks up at him, cheeks pinkish and eyes wide. “I spilled duck sauce on the deposition.”

He’s clearly worried, but Victor smiles. It starts small, growing wider by the second. He ducks his head, hiding the grin behind his hand, but he's helpless to stop the slight shaking of his shoulders.

“Are you— are you _laughing_ at me?” Yuuri demands, and Victor breaks, his chuckles becoming audible even as he tries to hold it back. “It’s not funny!” Yuuri holds up the stained paper, waving it in the air. “It’s all wet and pink now!”

When Victor only laughs harder at the sight, Yuuri drops the paper. Slow as a sunrise, he begins to smile as well. “Fine, fine,” he says. “But you have to make the new copy. If I inhale any more printer fumes tonight, I’ll lose brain function.”

“Deal.”

Unfortunately, Yuuri returns to his plate after that, and the room goes quiet aside from the light scraping of plastic cutlery on paper plates. Victor can’t have that. He watches as Yuuri grabs for more stacks of paper between bites, continuing to assemble binders even while they eat.

It dawns on him. “You _like_ this stuff,” Victor blurts. It comes out sounding almost accusatory.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, rolling his eyes. “This is exactly what I went to law school for—murdering trees and stuffing binders.” Victor’s too busy admiring his tone to rise to the bait. This Yuuri, with his sharp edges, is Victor’s favorite. But when Victor doesn’t respond, Yuuri pinks again, scraping at his plate.

“I guess I do like it, in a way,” he admits. “Doing the same thing over and over again, working in a pattern—it’s nice? It helps clear my head.”

“I can see that,” Victor says. “It’s like meditation?” Yuuri nods, and Victor shakes his head, huffing at laugh. “I’ve always been _terrible_ at meditation,” he admits. “I can’t stay in the patterns and I lose track of what I’m meant to be doing. Also, I get bored.” He shrugs. “I like to keep busy.”

“You don’t have to help with the binders,” Yuuri says, and Victor realizes he’s screwed up. He was trying to share something, but Yuuri’s interpreted it as Victor not wanting to be here. _Stupid_ —aren’t they both meant to be good with words?

“Yuuri, no. I want to stay. I was just trying—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated snap. Yuuri goes quiet, waiting for Victor to finish his sentence, but he isn’t sure what he wants to say. No, that’s wrong. He knows what he wants to say; he wants to tell Yuuri that he was trying to get to know him better, that he _likes_ the little glimpses of the real Yuuri he sees sometimes, beyond the shyness and the stiff facade of professionalism, and that he wants to see more. But he’s not sure if that would toe too close to a line. He doesn’t want to make Yuuri _uncomfortable_.

He thinks about something Yuuri said earlier, and he seizes on it, trying to change the subject. “Why _did_ you go to law school?”

Yuuri blinks, then asks, “What?”

“Why law school? Why do you want to be a lawyer? I know it’s not to organize trial binders, even though you apparently love it.”

“Oh.” Yuuri sinks back into silence. He shoves the rice around on his plate with a fork, rearranging it into piles, but doesn’t eat. For a moment, Victor thinks he’s stepped in it again, that Yuuri’s avoiding the question because the root of his ambition is some tragedy.

“I actually couldn’t make up my mind on what I wanted to do for a long time,” Yuuri admits. “I changed majors twice in my first semester. My family owns a small business, so that seemed like my obvious choice for a degree, but then a family friend kept encouraging me to do something more creative. But neither program spoke to me as I met with the professors and talked to other students.

“Eventually, I realized that what I wanted to do was just… help people.” A smile flickers across his face. Although he keeps his head down, still working on binders between bites of cashew chicken, Victor can see his eyes shining as he talks, his hands clenching into determined fists when not otherwise occupied. “Some might take that into the medical field or social work, but growing up in a family business, I saw what a tangle that was for my parents, navigating the legalities of taxes, employees, contracts with suppliers, and so on. A bad deal with a bigger company can ruin someone who is trying to make ends meet. Learning how to navigate that—it’s a way I can help not only my parents, but so many others.”

“Why intern at Wexler & Hart, then? Why corporate law, if you want to stick up for the little guy?” Victor asks, intrigued.

Yuuri’s smile spreads, and he glances up at Victor through his dark fringe as he says, “Know your enemy.”

“Devious.” Victor grins and lays a hand over his heart. “You’re ready to be a shark after all.”

Yuuri snorts at that, shaking his head, and focuses his attention back on the binders. Victor rises from the table to throw away their empty plates, dancing around Yuuri on his way to the trash can, and considers what Yuuri said.

“I hope it works for you,” Victor says as he returns to finish the binder he was working on. He’s not as focused as Yuuri, and feels a bit guilty he’s only done about a third of the work Yuuri has. “I had similar ambitions when I was in law school, but—” he breaks off, scowling down at the documents on the table as if they’re to blame. “I guess money really is the root of all evil. I’d like to help people, but being an asshole pays better.”

“You’re not an asshole.” Yuuri’s defense is ferocious, but he flushes again when Victor looks at him. “You aren’t. I really… admire you.”

“You do?” Victor asks before he can stop himself, not meaning to fish for compliments. He’s surprised. It’s not unusual for interns to look up to the senior staff members, of course, but all Victor's done in front of Yuuri so far is tank his biggest client.

Yuuri won’t look at Victor again. His hands are busy, punching holes in stacks of paper with more force than necessary, still packing binders on autopilot as he speaks. “When I came to you about the RBS case, I was so worried about what would happen, but you believed me—and you didn’t hesitate. You resigned from the case despite the consequences it might have on your career, because you knew it was the right thing to do. Assholes don’t do stuff like that.”

Although the sentence ends firm, Yuuri pauses, chewing his lip, and Victor can sense there’s something else he wants to say. He’s never been a patient man, but for this he’s absolutely willing to wait.

“I’m gay,” Yuuri blurts out, then after a pause, adds, “too,” with a little smile. “Or, I’m somewhere on that spectrum, I guess. I’m still figuring out what word I like the best. But, I wanted you to know because—when you stood up like that, when you responded to the case that way—it meant a lot to me. Personally.”

Victor is grateful, now, for his years of drama classes, voice, and public speaking. It’s only the threads of those various lessons ingrained in his head that keep him afloat right now. “Of course,” Victor says, and somehow it doesn’t come out strangled.

 _Yuuri is gay_ , and suddenly his cute little blushes and his hesitation around Victor might—possibly—mean something more than mere hero worship. Victor is going through the motions of finishing the binder in his hands, but he’s on autopilot, preoccupied. From the moment he was introduced to Yuuri, Victor thought he was cute, but never before has it occurred to him that Yuuri might be interested too.

“Uh, Victor?” Yuuri’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and Victor blinks himself back to the present. Yuuri is standing across the table, one hand on his hip and an amused quirk to his mouth. “I think you filled that same binder twice.”

Victor glances down. Yes. Yes, he did. _God_ , he’s a disaster. Meekly, he hands it across the table to Yuuri, who removes half the documents and slots them into another binder instead.

“This should be the last one,” Yuuri says, smiling. “Thanks for all your help—it went much faster with more hands. You can go home now; I’ll straighten up the conference room and turn the lights out when I lock up.”

“Sure,” Victor says, but he doesn’t leave, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he considers what to say next. He thinks of, then discards, a few attempts at smooth lines or cliche pick-ups. In the end, Yuuri’s been honest with him. Victor should be open in return.

“Yuuri, would you like to go to dinner with me next week?”

The open binder in Yuuri’s hands falls to floor, papers scattering everywhere. Cursing, Yuuri lunges to pick it up, and Victor joins him, kneeling on the floor to rescue the fallen.

“Is there like, a group outing planned?” Yuuri asks. He sounds choked. “Is this a networking thing?”

“No.” Their hands brush as they both gather the documents, and Yuuri sits back hard on his heels. Victor stacks his papers and offers them to Yuuri with a smile. “Just you and me. A date.”

Yuuri reaches for the sheaf of papers with both hands, but Victor doesn’t let go. Their eyes meet, both of them kneeling on the dirty office carpet, their fingers inches apart.

“Yeah,” Yuuri breathes. “Yes. Sure.”

Victor’s tempted to throw the papers back into the air to celebrate.

-

“This is a terrible idea,” Saki gasps. Her hands are tangled in the slitted skirt of Tori’s old _Fever_ gown, wringing at the satin like a medieval washerwoman as she rocks in the dressing room chair. “I’m not ready.”

“Of course you are.” Tori’s smile is serene from a distance, but up close, Saki can see the cracks in her calm—the twitches, the hardness hiding in her eyes. She’s frustrated with Saki, and Saki can’t blame her a bit. She’s frustrated with herself. “You’ve been practicing for weeks. You’ll _nail_ this.”

“But practice isn’t the same at all! It was just us here then. This is a _Saturday_.” She claws harder at the skirt, eyes wide. “Tori, I’m _headlining_. I never headline.”

Tori’s eyes flash, and Saki thinks that her frustration is—finally—about to erupt. Tori’s hand seizes hers, gripping them tight. Her nails are pressing white half-moon marks into Saki’s skin, but only because the bejeweled fakes she has on tonight are so claw-like.

Tori’s gaze drops to their joined hands, then back up, focusing in on Saki’s face. She’s wearing false lashes tonight, and they look like butterfly wings. “You’re going to tear the dress,” she says flatly.

It’s stupid, but it’s one more thing on top of all the nerves clamoring at Saki’s chest. She loves this dress. It’s important to her; it’s something that’s always connected them, and here Tori is saying she’s going to _ruin it_. Suddenly, that’s a metaphor for their whole relationship.

_You’re going to destroy this._

Saki’s eyes well with tears. She bites her lip, and Tori’s face falls.

“Shit,” she murmurs. She drops Saki’s hands and starts fumbling at the vanity. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Please! Your _makeup_!”

And of course Saki’s going to ruin that too. She bites down harder on her lip, trying to keep from crying as Tori rushes back over, kneeling on the floor of the dressing room and balancing the tissue box on Saki’s shaking knees.

“The floor—” Saki murmurs, “your dress—” The Alley’s dressing room rug hasn't been vacuumed in twenty years, much less shampooed.

“Hush. Hold still.” Tori grasps her chin with firm, sharp fingers, tilting Saki’s head down toward her. She leans on Saki’s legs to get close, and Saki parts her knees without thinking as Tori worms closer. Somehow, the first touch of the tissue on her cheek is still surprising. Saki jerks.

Shushing her again, Tori never hesitates. A frown tugs at her lips as she dabs at the moisture around the rims of Saki’s eyes, taking delicate care to avoid any smudges. Her face is so close, Saki can make out the faint shadows of smile lines that embrace the corners of her mouth.

“You’ve absolutely wrecked your lipstick,” Tori huffs. She drops the used tissue into Saki’s lap and delves a hand into the shimmering corset bodice of her dress, emerging with a tube of deep red.

Tilting Saki’s head again, she uncaps the lipstick with her teeth and dots the color onto Saki’s sensitive lower lip. It goes on smooth, warm from Tori’s body heat, and Saki can feel herself beginning to flush, thinking of how this same little cylinder has caressed Tori's own lips, how moments ago it was cupped so close to her chest.

She’s very aware, now, of how close they are. Tori’s fingers have fallen from her chin, and her hand is gripping the top of Saki’s thigh, just above where the slit in the dress begins. If her hand were a few inches lower...

“Saki,” Tori breathes, and Saki can barely hear it over the pounding of her heartbeat in her own ears. “Do you remember what I told you when you tried on this dress?”

Unsure if she remembers even her own name at the moment, Saki shakes her head. She hadn’t been able to hear well then, either, over the red-hot press of Tori’s hand against the small of her back as the gown was slowly zipped.

“Don’t think of all the faces,” Tori says, her blue eyes burning. “In your eyes, there should be only one person in the room. Think of someone—someone you want to perform for. Someone who brings out the person you _want_ to be on stage.”

 _But there’s only one person I want to see me_ , Saki thinks, blinking dumbly.

Before any stupid words can escape Saki’s mouth, Tori stands, her bright smile back. “There,” she declares, tossing the wadded tissue into the trash. “You’re perfect again, and right on time. I think Clara’s last song just finished.”

“Okay.” Saki stands, and she’s wobbling in her heels like a little kid in mommy’s shoes, dazed. It doesn’t get any better when Tori reaches out, grasping her arm to help her steady.

“Remember what I said.” Tori’s hand is the only thing keeping Saki upright. It’s the only reason she’s walking, one step after another, out to the edge of the stage. “Don’t be afraid—knock ‘em dead.”

Saki nods, and then Tori’s arm vanishes and she’s at the stage. The lights are low. There’s a clamor in the room, dozens of voices in drunken conversation in the space between songs, and then Phichit’s voice cuts in over the loudspeaker, calling her name.

As she climbs the little steps onto the stage, the lights come up, blinding. At the rear of the little wooden stage, a newly-installed pole gleams at her in accusation, and Saki’s stomach clenches. She’s not even spinning yet, but she feels dizzy. She steps up to the mic stand and peers out beyond the lights as the music begins.

What seems like hundreds of shadowed faces stare back at her.

She freezes. For a moment, she falters, and she misses her first lip sync cue. When she hears the lyrics playing, her head and brain both go into overdrive, nearly drowning out the music in her own ears as her lips stumble to catch up.

 _One person_ , she thinks, and her eyes flick through the audience, searching—Phichit, Emil, an older regular with silvered temples and a full red beard, a girl who looks too young to be here, smiling as she mouths along with the words too, Tori—

 _Tori_. The only person Saki wants to see her up here. She can still feel the ghost of Tori’s finger tracing along her lips as she mouths the next lines.

_We kissed, I fell under your spell_

_A love no one could deny_

Saki fades out the rest of the crowd, eyes fixed on her one person. Tension seeps from her shoulders and she turns on her heel. _Don’t you ever say I just walked away_...

She’s not thinking about the routine anymore. Even when she can’t see Tori in the room, Saki carries her along—images of Tori, here on the same stage, in the same gown; Tori hanging from a ceiling beam in Podium, her skirt riding up her thighs; Tori bursting into The Alley, grinning wide as the box in her arms overflows with hand-me-down treasures; Tori in the dressing room, moments ago, kneeling on the floor at Saki’s feet as she cupped her face gently, her lipstick pressing against Saki’s mouth like a kiss.

The pole is cold beneath her palm, but it warms up quickly to her skin as she climbs, then swings. The stage lights flash at the crescendo. _I came in like a wrecking ball_.

Over the song, Saki hears a _roar_ of cheers. Her face is sore; her cheeks hurt. She can’t stop _smiling_.

The performance feels like it lasts forever, and also like it’s over in an instant. At the last line, she drops from the pole, a split into a death drop, and the room explodes.

She’s pretty sure Phichit is announcing something, but she can’t hear the speakers over the sound of the audience cheering for her. She stays on her back, chest heaving, smiling like an idiot up at the insulation-spattered ceiling and the faded, torn edges of the rainbow stage curtain.

It’s probably the best performance she’ll ever have. She can feel it— the energy, the _triumph_. She hopes someone was recording that, because she might as well quit drag now—she’ll _never_ be that good again.

The only thing that pulls her up from pancake position on the floor at last is her desire to see the look on Tori’s face. When Saki sits up, the crowd erupts again in howls and applause. Emil gives her a thumbs up from the open doorway, and Phichit is grinning bright behind the bar, but no matter how hard she searches, she can’t see Tori in the crowd. Had she _left_?

Just as Saki begins to worry, Phichit catches her eye, waving for her attention, and then pointing toward the stage door insistently. _Oh_. Of course. Tori’s gone to wait for her back stage.

It’s never taken her so long to journey the four feet from the stage to the door. There are faces and hands everywhere—patting, gripping, congratulating, or tucking loose bills into her garter, some of which will later turn out to be tens and _twenties_. A very drunk girl puts her face about an inch away from Saki’s, wetly yelling something about _Miley Cyrus, who?_ until Saki can squirm away, slotting herself in the infinitesimal space between people until she finally reaches the door and slips away.

The door to the dressing room stands open, warm light from a scarf-covered lamp spilling out into the hallway, and Saki pushes through. Tori’s back is to her, her high silver ponytail brushing her waist and mingling with the shimmering tulle of her mini-dress.

Saki rushes toward her, face still warm from the stage lights and breathless, but she stops short of touching. “Did I do okay?” she asks, eager for approval, even knowing it was the performance of a lifetime.

Tori turns to face her, and she’s smiling, but there’s a strange look in her eyes, a wildness that Saki’s never seen before. She has only a split second to note it, and then Tori is there, her false nails lightly scraping the sides of Saki’s face as she cups it, pulling her in.

It’s nothing like the smooth slide of her lip gloss across Saki’s mouth before the show. The kiss is more like a summer storm—a forceful fury that comes out of nowhere, sweeping into Saki and leaving her shaking with the effort. Tori’s hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck, nails pressing staccato on the skin at the base of her skull, and she pulls Saki in, impossibly tight.

And then, just as quickly, she’s gone.

No, not gone. Tori’s forehead is hot as sunlight on a black car where it presses against Saki’s, less than an inch of breath between their matching, red-smeared lips. “Is this okay?” Tori whispers, and Saki wants to yell _why would even think you need to ask?_ But then she realizes that her own body is frozen, her arms still dangling stupid useless at her sides, and of course Tori might not know she wants this when all she’s doing is standing there, letting herself be kissed.

Curling a hand around Tori’s waist, Saki pulls her closer. Their hips bump, but between layers of tulle and satin and undergarments, it feels like nothing. “Yes,” she murmurs, once she remembers words are important. “Yes yes yes yes—”

She’s cut off by another kiss—Tori’s tongue gliding between her parted lips, Tori’s hands insistent on her neck and on her hips, Tori’s weight pressing her back, stumbling in too-tall heels until her shoulders are pressed against the door, and it closes, latching behind her with a loud click.

“You were perfect,” Tori breathes in the space between kisses. “Amazing. So hot, you _sizzled_.” Saki’s head hits the wall, her senses as overwhelmed by the praise as the touch, the feel of Tori lip-syncing more unspoken adulation into the curve between Saki’s ear and her jaw.

“I want—” Tori says, barely audible, and before Saki can ask her _what_ she wants, she’s sinking to her knees. It’s the second time tonight that Tori’s kneeled on this floor, staring up from between Saki’s legs, and Saki would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about this the first time. She’d be lying a lot.

“Yeah?” Tori asks, another _is this okay?_ mingled with _you want this too?_ , and Saki can’t even find the three letters she needs to spell the word yes, so she just nods and nods until her head hits the wall—and then hits it again when she feels Tori’s hands slide up the outsides of her legs from her knees to her hips, rucking up her skirt.

There’s a layer of nylon still between her skin and Tori’s fingers, and it’s already _too much_ , and then Tori’s fingers find a bit of exposed skin after all—a run in Saki’s cheap, dollar store hose.

“Oh no,” Tori says, but her tone is more delighted than mournful as she wriggles two fingers beneath the mesh, “I’m afraid these are a total loss.” The _rip_ of cloth that follows is the hottest thing Saki’s ever heard, at least until Tori’s happy little gasp a second later as her thumb traces the line where Saki’s cock is hidden, trapped and almost unnoticeable inside her gaff briefs.

Getting a hard-on in a tuck is far from the most comfortable experience, and Saki’s already about to snap for Tori to _stop teasing_ as she leans in to rub her cheek on the flat front of Saki’s crotch, inhaling deeply. If something doesn’t happen soon, her hose won’t be the only thing getting torn tonight.

Pulling back a bit, Tori hooks her thumbs under the sides of the satin panties and tugs. Saki exhales, eyes falling closed in relief as her cock surges for freedom. It feels way too good for something so simple, and then Tori’s hand wraps around the base, warm and firm, and Saki’s knees shake, Tori’s name leaving her lips like an invocation.

“You—” Tori murmurs, her voice dipping before she swallows, a single fingernail tracing fire from the head of Saki’s cock to the base. “I’ve been thinking about this from the moment you climbed that pole tonight—” she breaks off to chuckle, “—among other things.”

Saki nods again, vehement. That all sounds good, _very_ good, and she’s almost gathered her wits enough to ask more about _other things_ when Tori’s tongue flicks across her slit. Saki’s hands drop to her shoulders, then to the side, then one on the shoulder again. She can’t decide where to put her arms, and then Tori swallows her down and Saki lets out a long, low groan at the feeling of being utterly engulfed.

Her fist smashes into the door at her back when Tori pulls off, and it takes Saki a moment to look down again. Her dick twitches at the sight—Tori’s dark red lipstick is smeared, sticky on the edges of her mouth already. There’s a red circle at the base of Saki’s cock, and she thinks she might get it _tattooed_ there.

“You can grab me,” Tori says, winking. “Just don’t touch the wig, okay?”

Before Saki can answer, she dives in again, fake nails making pinpricks on Saki’s ass as Tori pulls her hips forward, away from the wall. Saki can’t even remember the last time she did this—not that she’s ever done anything like _this_ , and she grabs Tori’s shoulders hard on the next long sucking pull, scrambling to hold onto something. She’s probably going to leave a mark, but she doesn’t know what else to do right now. Tori’s hair is tempting despite her warning, that bobbing ponytail swishing back and forth with the dip and pull of her head.

Saki looks away, resisting the temptation to grab that handle, and her eyes fall on the dressing room mirror on the opposite wall. Heat surges through her, clutching harder at Tori’s shoulders as she sees them. She looks like a hot _mess_ , her skirt pushed up to her hips, shoulders up against the door and eyes wide and wild. Tori, on her knees, makes the whole sordid thing look like an act of worship.

 _I did this_. Saki thinks suddenly. _I did this to her. She wanted to fall to her knees for **me**._

Her hand slides up Tori’s shoulder to wrap around the back of her neck, not pulling but possessing, and Tori moans around her cock. That’s when Saki knows she has no chance of lasting.

“Tori,” she gasps, “I’m going to—”

Tori presses closer, lips tight around the base, and _hums_ like a pleased kitten, and that’s it. Saki is _gone_.

Legs still shaking, gulping for air, Saki looks down to find Tori licking her smeared lips—and pouting. Saki’s hand is curled around the tail tip of her wig. She quickly drops it. “Sorry— Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Tori tosses her hair back, rising with far too much elegance back to her feet. “I guess I’ll take it as a compliment if you lost control.”

The whispers in Saki’s head, quieted briefly by arousal and orgasm, are already starting to wake up, but before they can get too far, Tori leans in, pressing Saki back into the door once again as she slots her mouth over Saki’s own. Saki whimpers, tasting cosmetics and fragrance along the salty-bitter flavor of herself as Tori’s hands come up to rest on her shoulders, then skim down her exposed arms, leaving goosebumps in her wake.

Tori pulls back several long minutes later with a self-satisfied smile. “There. Now our makeup is equally fucked,” she declares. In counterpoint to her sharp-tongued words, her fingers intertwine with Saki’s.

“You really were incredible tonight,” she murmurs, and raises their joined hands to press a brief kiss on Saki’s knuckles. “Whatever it was that made it so different this time—don’t lose sight of that, okay?”

“You did,” Saki says, and Tori’s hands clutch harder at her own. She can’t afford to hesitate now. She reaches up to thumb a smear of red away from the corner of Tori's mouth, and the truth spills out around her ragged edges. “It’s always been you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to scream on [tumblr](http://louciferish.tumblr.com/), [twitter](http://twitter.com/louciferish), and/or [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/louciferish).


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